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OF  THK 

University  of  California, 


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ECHOES  FROM  ERIN 


BY 


WILLIAM  WESCOTT  FINK 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW    YORK    AND    LONDON 

Zbc  fcnlcfterbochec  iptcsa 
1903 


"      trl^s   Copyright,  1903     0  *  ,       *  ^  C'  ^ 

BY  !    {^    • 

WILLIAM  WESCOTT  FINK 


Published,  April,  1903 


Ube  ftniclietbocftec  (tees.  View  Uorft 


CONTENTS 


Proem 


night ' 


Echoes  from  Erin 
In  Extenuation 
Larrie  O'Dee 
"Many  Me,  Darlint,  To 
A  Love-Letter  from  Dakota 
Michael  Maloney's  Serenade 
McFlarity's  Christmas  Gift 
The  Classical  Book- Peddler 
The  Musical  Wooing  of  Michael  McCray 
O'Branigan's  Drill 
How  the  Battle  was  Fought  . 
"Remimber  Kathlane" 
Barney  Muldoon,  the  "Vanus  de  Shiloh 
The  Two  Bridgets  .         .         . 

Kathleen  O'Dom   .... 
Paddy  O'Shilf       .  .  •       . 


PAGB 

vii 

I 
3 
5 
8 

lO 

13 

15 
18 
21 
24 
29 
33 
39 
41 
44 
47 


m 


1 26760 


IV 


CONTENTS 


Miscellaneous  Verse 

In  the  Grinding  of  the  Drift 

Little  Tee-Hee 

"The  Bells  that  Made  Her  Mine" 

Timothy  Horn 

Professor  Van  Dom 

"What  Makes  the  Grasses  Grow?' 

A  Hero  of  Lexington 

The  Tycoon    .... 

Old  Job  Okcenbean 

In  Memory  of  Eugene  Field 

"Hanner"       .... 

The  Castle  of  Bacchus    .  .      . 

The  Octopus 

The  Man  with  the  Second  Growth 

John  Bubble's  Widow    . 

General  Jim   .... 

The  Nation's  Nativity    . 

Washington  at  Valley  Forge 

The  Sword  and  Bugle  of  '76 

The  Price  of  Liberty 

Zagonyi's  Charge  at  Springfield 

Leadville  Jim 

"Nigger  Joe" 


PAGB 

53 
55 
59 
65 
69 
76 
82 
86 
89 
92 
96 
98 

lOI 

107 
116 
119 
127 
130 
132 
134 
139 
138 
145 
149 


CONTENTS 

To  the  Graduates 

In  Days  op  Old 

Dreams  of  the  Olden  Times 

The  Blomrog 

The  Polyglotwoggle 

Cushlog 

Guatimozin    .  . 

The  Grotto  Flower  of  EU-Banoor 


V 

PAGB 
162 

167 
170 

172 

179 


PROEM 

Not  on  Parnassian  heights 

Tune  I  my  httle  harp  for  venturous  song, 
Where  the  great  bards  have  sung,  where  still 

their  lights 
Flash  far  apart  and  lonely,  and  the  nights 

Are  centuries  long. 

None  save  the  inspired  few. 

With  fancy  winged  as  eagles  and  with  eyes 
Undimned,  can  pierce  the  illimitable  blue, 
Where  star- worlds  roll  in  majesty,  and  view 

God's  Paradise. 

If  I  but  sing  one  song. 

Some  simple  melody  for  hearts  o'erspent 
In  the  long  strife  with  sorrow  and  with  wrong. 
Or  light  one  smile  where  care  has  lingered  long, 

I  am  content. 


ECHOES  FROM  ERIN 


IN  EXTENUATION 

Erin,  green  Erin!     On  our  western  hills 
I  've  heard  thy  laughter  ripple  like  the  rills 
That  prank  thine  emerald  glades,  and  music 

make 
Where  moonbeams  fall  round  fair  Killarney's 

lake ; 
For  thy  brave  sons  have  breathed  through  all 

the  earth 
Thy  vitalizing  oxygen  of  mirth. 

Land  where  the  mirth-pot  sings  o'er  Sorrow's 

fires ; 
Where  now,  as  ever,  to  Hope's  funeral  pyres 
Pathos  leads  Humor,  weeping,  by  the  bier; 
Where  keen-edged  wit  is  mellowed  by  a  tear; 
Where  Courage  looks  on  Sorrow  with  a  smile, 
Bidding  Hope  live  for  yet  a  little  while ! — 
I  love  thy  bulls  and  brogues,  whose  artless  art 
Conceals  the  deeper  meaning  of  the  heart ; 
For  thou  hast  cast  the  witchery  of  thy  spells, 
3 


4  IN  EXTENUA  TION 

In  brogues  melodious  as  accordant  bells, 
Upon  my  spirit.     Listening,  I  can  hear 
Thy  merry  laughter,  limpid  as  a  tear, 
And  do  but  echo  back  that  laughter,  sprung 
From  hearts  mature  and  yet  forever  young. 
These  be  but  feeble  mimicries,  ahone! 
Staccato  notes  struck  from  the  mellower  tone 
Of  lips  that  laugh  e'en  though  the  brave  heart 

bleeds, — 
Thy  melodies  piped  back  by  broken  reeds ; 
Yet,  though  these  echoes  fail  to  win  thy  smile. 
They  speak  an  alien's  love  for  Erin's  Isle. 


LARRIE   O'DEE 

Now  the  Widow  McGee 
And  Larrie  O'Dee 
Had  two  little  cottages  out  on  the  green, 
With  just  enough  room  for  two  pig-pens  between. 
The  widow  was  young,  and  the  widow  was  fair, 
With  the  brightest  of  eyes,  and  the  brownest  of 

hair; 
And  it  frequently  chanced,  when  she  came  in  the 

mom 
With  the  swill  for  her  pig,  Larrie  came  with  the 

com; 
And  some  of  the  ears  that  he  tossed  from  his 

hand 
In  the  pen  of  the  widow  were  certain  to  land. 

One  morning  said  he : 
"Och!  Mistress  McGee, 
It 's  a  washte  of  good  lumber,  this  runnin'  two 

rigs, 
Wid  a  fancy  partition  between  our  two  pigs!" 
5 


6  LARRIE   O'DEE 

"Indeed,  sure  it  is,"  answered  Widow  McGee, 
With  the  sweetest  of  smiles  upon  Larrie  O'Dee; 
"An'  thin,  it  looks  kind  o'   hard-hearted  an' 

mane, 
Keepin'  two  frindly  pigs  so  ixceedin'ly  near 
That  whiniver  one  grunts  thin  the  other  can 

hear. 
An'  yet  keep  a  cruel  partition  between!" 

"  Shweet  Widdie  McGee," 
Answered  Larrie  O'Dee, 
"  If  ye  feel  in  yer  heart  we  are  mane  to  the  pigs, 
Are  n't  we  mane  to  oursilves  to  be  runnin'  two 

rigs? 
Och!     It  made  me  heart  ache  whin  I  peeped 

through  the  cracks 
Of  me  shanty,  lasht  March,  at  ye  shwingin'  yer 

axe. 
An'  a-bobbin'  yer  head,  an'  a-shtompin'  yer  feet, 
Wid  yer  purrty  white  hands  jusht  as  red  as  a 

beet; 
A-sphlittin'  yer  kindlin'-wood  out  in  the  shtorm, 
Whin  one  little  shtove — it  would  keep  us  both 

warm!" 


LARRIE   O'DEE  7 

"Now,  piggy,"  said  she, 

"Larrie's  courtin'  o'  me, 
Wid  his  diHcate,  tinder  allusions  to  you; 
So  now,  ye  musht  tell  me  jusht  what  I  musht  do : 
For,  if  I  'm  to  say  yes,  shtir  the  shwill  wid  yer 

shnout ; 
But  if  I  'm  to  say  no,  ye  musht  keep  yer  nose  out. 
Now,  Larrie,  for  shame!  to  be  bribin'  a  pig 
By  tossin'  a  handful  of  corn  in  its  shwig! " 
"  Me  darlint,  the  piggy  says  '  yesl '  "  answered  he : 
And  that  was  the  courtship  of  Larrie  O'Dee. 


"MARRY  ME,  DARLINT,  TO-NIGHT 

Me  darlint,  it's  axin'  they  are 

That  I  goes  to  the  wars  to  be  kilt, 

An*  come  back  wid  an  ihgant  scar, 
An'  a  sabre  hung  on  to  a  hilt. 

They  offers  promotion  to  those 
Who  dies  in  definse  of  the  right ; 

I  '11  be  off  in  the  momin*, — suppose 
Ye  marry  me,  darlint,  to-night. 

There 's  nothin'  so  raises  a  man 
In  the  eyes  of  the  world  as  to  fall 

Ferninst  the  ould  flag,  in  the  van, 
Pierced  through  wid  a  bit  of  a  ball. 

An'  whin  I  am  kilt  ye  can  wear 
Some  iligant  crape  on  yer  bonnet ; 

Jusht  think  how  the  women  will  shtare 
Wid  invy  whiniver  ye  don  it ! 
8 


"  MARK  Y  ME,  DARLINT,    TO-NIGHT  "        9 

Oh !  phwat  a  proud  widdy  ye  '11  be 

Whin  they  bring  me  corpse  home,  not  to  min- 
tion 
The  fact  we  can  live — don't  ye  see? — 

All  the  rest  of  our  lives  on  me  pinsion ! 


A  LOVE-LETTER  FROM  DAKOTA 

Shweet  Jinny,  I  write  on  me  knee 

Wid  the  shtump  of  a  limited  pincil ; 
I  would  write  on  me  disk,  but  you  see 

I  'm  widout  that  convainient  utinsil. 
I  've  a  house  of  me  own,  but  as  yet 

Me  furniture's  homely  an'  shlinder; 
It 's  a  wife  I  am  afther,  to  let 

Her  consult  her  ideals  of  sphlinder. 
If  I  should  buy  tables  an'  chairs, 

An'  bureaus  an'  carpets  an'  vases, 
An' — bother  the  lingo  of  wares! — 

An'  curtains  wid  camel-hair  laces, 
Perhaps  whin  I  married  a  wife 

She  would  turn  up  her  nose  at  me  choosin' 
Or  waysht  the  shweet  bloom  of  her  life 

Wid  pretinse  of  contint  at  their  usin'. 
So  now,  I've  no  carpets  to  shweep, 

Nor  tables  nor  chairs  to  tip  o'er ; 
Whin  night  comes  I  roll  up  an'  shleep 

As  contint  as  a  pig  on  the  floor. 


A   LOVE-LETTER  FROM  DAKOTA  I 

But,  ah,  the  shweet  dreams  that  I  dream 

Of  Erin's  most  beautiful  daughter! 
Until  in  me  visions  you  seem 

On  your  way  to  me  over  the  water! 
( — Please  pardon  me  method  ungainly, 

But  hopin'  the  future  may  yoke  us, 
I  '11  try  to  be  bould  an'  speak  plainly. 
An'  bring  me  note  down  to  a  focus : — ) 
Would  you  marry  a  man  wid  a  farrum. 
An'  a  house  most  ixquisitely  warrum, 
Wid  walls  so  ixceedin'ly  thick,  ma'am. 
For  they  're  built  of  a  single  big  brick,  ma'am, 
Touchin'  Mexico,  Texas,  Nebrasky, — 

The  thickest  walls  iver  you  thought  of. 

Why,  they  cover  the  country  we  bought  of 
The  sire  of  Alexis — Alasky ! 
For  sure  its  great  walls  are  the  womild, — 

In  fact  it 's  a  hole  in  the  ground ; 
But,  oh!  it's  the  place  to  be  curruled 

Whin  the  whirlwinds  are  twirlin'  around! 
It  is  ivery  bit  basemint  except 

The  parlor,  that  lies  out-of-doors, 
Where  the  zephyrs'  pure  fingers  have  swept 

Its  million-ply  carpeted  floors. 


12  A   LOVE-LETTER  FROM  DAKOTA 

Forgive  me  ixtravigant  speeches, 

But  it 's  fair  as  the  dreams  of  a  Hindoo, 

Wid  me  parlor's  unHmited  reaches, 
And  the  sky  for  a  sunny  bay-window. 

Me  darHnt,  Dakota  is  new, 

Sod  houses  are  here  widout  number, 
But  I  '11  build  a  board  mansion  for  you — 

Whin  I  'm  able  to  purchase  the  lumber. 
An'  sure  't  will  not  take  very  long 

Where  the  soil  is  so  fertile,  I  'm  tould; 
Whin  you  tune  up  your  plough  for  a  song, 

The  earth  hums  a  chorus  of  gould. 

Thin  come  to  your  Dinnis  O'Brion, 

An'  let  his  fidelity  prove 
That  his  heart  is  as  shtrong  as  a  lion, 

Except  that  it 's  burstin'  wid  love. 


MICHAEL  MALONEY'S  SERENADE 

Oh  !  Nora  McCune ! 
Is  it  draimin'  ye  are  ? 

Is  it  wakin',  or  shleepin'  ye  be? 
'T  is  the  dark  of  the  moon, 
An'  there 's  niver  a  star 

To  watch  if  ye  're  peepin'  at  me. 
Throw  open  yer  blinds,  shweet  love,  if  ye 're 
there ; 
An'  if  ye  are  not,  plaze  be  shpakin' ; 
An'  if  ye 're  inclined,  ye  might  bring  yer  guitar, 
An'  help  me  me  darlint  to  waken. 

I  am  lonely !     Ahone ! 

An'  I'm  Michael  Maloney, 

Awaken,  shweet  Nora  McCune. 
For,  love,  I  'm  alone, 
An'  here 's  Larrie  Mahoney, 

An'  Dinnis  O'Rouk  an'  Muldoon. 
I've  brought  thim  to  jine  in  the  song  I'll  be 
singin' ; 

13 


14         MICHAEL   MALONEY'S  SERENADE 

For,  Nora,  shweet  Nora  McCune, 
Ye've  shtarted  me  heart-strings  so  loudly  to 
ringin', 
One  person  can't  carry  the  chune! 

But  don't  be  unaisy, 
Me  darlint,  for  fear 

Our  saycrit  of  love  should  be  tould ; 
Mahoney  is  crazy, 

An'  Dinnis  can't  hear; 

Muldoon  is  struck  dumb  wid  a  could. 
Their  backs  are  all  facin'  the  window,  me  dear, 
An'  they  've  shworn  by  the  horn  of  the  moon 
That  niver  a  note  of  me  song  would  they  hear 
That  refers  to  shweet  Nora  McCune. 


McFLARITY'S  CHRISTMAS  GIFT  , 

"  It 's  Christmas  day, 

Shweet  Jenny  McShea, 
An'  I  bring  ye  a  shplindid  rarity, 

A  Christmas  gift 

Ye  niver  can  lift ; 
It's  mesilf— it  is  Ted  McFlarity!" 

**Och!  Ted,  go  'way 

Wid  yer  boyish  play ! 
Ye 're  rude,  an'  I  ne'er  could  shtay  wid  ye: 

Put  the  gift  on  the  shilf 

An*  be  off  wid  yersilf ! 
Shtop!     Ye're  takin'  the  gift  away  wid  ye!" 

"Ah!  Jenny,  me  dear, 

The  gift  is  here! 
A  refusal  would  shtop  the  breath  o'  me; 

An'  I  'd  always  say, 

'Till  me  dyin'  day, 
That  it  caused  the  immadiate  death  o'  me." 
15 


l6  MCFLARITY S  CHRISTMAS  GIFT 

"Och!  Teddy,  me  Ted! 

Is  it  thrue  ye  're  dead  ? 
Ahone!     For  the  life's  gone  out  o'  me. 

Come  back  to  yer  life ! 

Come  back  to  yer  wi^el 
An'  ye  niver  shall  have  any  doubt  o'  me." 

"I  am  speechless!     Me  queen, 

Is  it  true  ye  mane 
Ye  accipt  the  gift  along  wid  the  giver?" 

"Yes,  Ted,  to  be  sure, 

Any  lass  would  indure, 
For  the  sake  of  the  gift,  yer  shweet  prisince 
foriver." 

"Ah!  Jenny  McShea, 

Ye  '11  bliss  the  day 
Whin  yer  name  it  is  Mrs.  McFlarity; 

Wid  a  cow  an'  a  pig, 

An'  a  bit  of  a  gig. 
We  will  aiqual  the  shtyle  of  O'Garrity. 

"Then  Jenny,  me  Jane, 
Along  the  lane 


MCFLARITY'S  CHRISTMAS  GIFT  1 7 

Of  life  we  '11  walk  so  pacefully, 

An'  whin  we  've  died 

We  '11  weep  beside 
Each  other's  graves  so  gracefully. 

"A  place  I '11  dig, 

An'  plant  a  sprig 
Of  shamrock  o'er  yours  tinderly ! 

An'  over  mine 

Ye  '11  plant  a  vine 
Wid  branches  shpreadin'  shlinderly ! " 

"Och!  Teddy,  me  Ted! 

Whin  ye  are  dead 
I  '11  weep  me  eyes  out  o'er  ye,  Ted. 

An'  the  grief,  ahone. 

Of  livin*  alone 
Will  kill  me  long  before  ye,  Ted! 

"The  blue  o'  the  skies 

Is  in  yer  eyes. 
An'  the  teardrops  shinin'  glimmery. 

Don't  weep,  me  Ted, 

For  afther  I  'm  dead 
I  will  iver  be  thrue  to  yer  mimory ! " 


THE  CLASSICAL  BOOK-PEDDLER 

He  was  tall  and  slim,  with  a  clear-cut  face, 
That  is,  with  a  mouth  cut  clear  across; 

His  smile,  the  perfection  of  Grecian  grace. 
And  his  hair  had  taken  from  grease  its  gloss. 

His  brow  was  protuberant,  broad,  and  low, 
And  his  nose  had  the  classical  outline  seen 
In  the  beautiful  isle  called  Santor^^w, 

In  the  Grecian  Archipelago. 

He  drew  from  a  fanciful  oil-cloth  pack 
A  volume  of  Homer,  and  bade  me  scan 

Its  tangle  of  letters.     Thought  I,  "Alack! 
I  must  play  I'm  a  bibulous  Irishman." 

•'Here's  a  volume,"  said  he,  "which  you  will 
like, 
The  Grecian  tongue  in  its  loveliest  form." 
Then  I  answered:  "  Bedad!  that 's  news  to  Mike. 
A  tongue  in  a  book?     Is  it  could,  or  warm?" 
i8 


THE   CLASSICAL  BOOK-PEDDLER 


19 


He  said:   *'It  was  Homer  who  wrote  of  Troy, 
How  the   Isles   of   Greece   were   lit   by   the 
flame " 

"Too  expinsive!"  said  I.     "For  Mike  M alloy 
Lar-r-d  ile  is  the  grase,  an'  1 11  use  the  same.'* 

Then  he  said:   "Dear  sir,  you  quite  mistake. 

I  speak  of  the  Greek — the  Grecian  tongue; 
How  the  brave  Agamemnon  fought  to  break 

The  power  of  Troy,  when  the  world  was  young. 


"  Go  learn  in  the  Attic  the  euphony- 
"I  lives  in  an  attic  now!"  I  said. 


But  this  classical  peddler  heard  not  me, 

For  he  answered,  "The  Greek  is  a  tongue  not 
dead. 


"Ah!    the  Greek!    The  Greek  is  the  sweetest 
tongue ; 

'Tau  sigma  omicron  pi  rho  nu *  " 

"  Bad  luck  to  yer  brogue!"  I  cried.     "  Be  hung, 

Wid  yer  blatherty,  hatherty,  higglety  blu!" 


20  THE   CLASSICAL  BOOK-PEDDLER 

But  still  he  said,  tenderly,  " '  Mou,  emoi — * 
How  sweetly  the  soft,  rich  vowels  blend!" 

Then  I  hissed:  "Take  that,  from  Mike  Malloy!" 
And  he  went  down-stairs  with  a  Grecian  bend. 


THE  MUSICAL  WOOING  OF  MICHAEL 
McCRAY 

Sure,  Pat,  it's  the  truth 

That  the  happiest  youth 
Who   e'er  winked  at  the  mornin*   is   Michael 
McCray, 

For  I  Ve  won  the  complaitest 

An'  shweetest  an'  naitest 
Colleen  that 's  adornin'  ould  Erin  to-day. 

I  know  the  immortals 

Came  down  from  the  portals 
Of  glory  to  tune  up  her  beautiful  throat, 

For  whin  she  is  singin* 

It 's  like  the  soft  ringin* 
Of  anthems  whin,  draimin',  through  heaven  ye 
float. 

So  I  said  to  her:  "Darlint, 
The  invious  starlint 

21 


22     MUSICAL    WOOING  OF  MICHAEL  McCRA  Y 

Is  tryin'  to  practice  yer  music,  me  dear! 

The  nightingale 's  singin' 

Sets  all  the  world  ringin' 
In  praise  of  its  beauty;  but,  faix!  could  he  hear 

"  Ye  deliver  wan  note 

From  yer  quiverin'  throat. 
He  'd  perish  wid  melody's  shweet  ipi/^'/?sy ; 

An'  aiven  the  raven 

Would  be  aft  her  laivin', 
For  fear  wid  yer  music  his   soul  would  grow 
tipsy." 

Then  rippled  her  laughter: 

"Och,  Mike!     Are  ye  daft,  sir? 
Is  it  nothin'  ye  love  but  a  musical  note? 

Arrah !     Cease  from  yer  sportin*  1 

Was  iver  such  courtin'  ? 
Do  ye  think  that  I  carry  me  heart  in  me  throat  ? " 

I  felt  me  soul  sinkin', 
But  suddenly  thinkin' — 
"I  know  where  yer  heart  is,  me  darlint,"  sez  I. 
Sez  she:  "If  ye 're  knowin', 
Why  can't  ye  be  showin' 


MUSICAL    WOOING   OF  MICHAEL  McCRA  V     23 

Yer  knowledge  by   methods  more  manly,   me 
b'y?" 

**  Me  b'y !  "     Oh,  the  shplindor 

Of  hearin'  the  tinder 
Ixprission!     And,  claspin'  her  dilicate  waist, 

I  cried:  "Me  life's  treasure, 

I  '11  show  ye  wid  pleasure, — 
Yer  heart 's  in  the  arm  of  me  homage  embraced!'* 

''Arrah!     What  are  ye  shpaikin'? 

Now  be  aft  her  takin' 
Yer  arrum  from  around  me,  dear  Michael,"  sez 
she; 

But  what  do  ye  think,  sir? 

The  shweet  bobolink,  sir. 
Held  on  to  me  hand  so  I  could  n't,  ye  see! 


O'BRANIGAN'S  DRILL. 

The  echoes  of  Sumter  had  thrilled  through  the 

land, 
And  Michael  O'Branigan,  born  to  command, 
Obtained  a  commission;  a  word,  and  a  nod, 
And  his  roster  was  filled  with  the  sons  of  "the 

sod." 
It  is  true  that   his   knowledge   of  tactics  was 

scant ; 
When   he   wished  to  "oblique,"   his  command 

would  be  "Shlant"; 
But  he  knew  the  importance  of  practical  skill ; 
And,  marching  his  company  out  to  a  hill. 
Proceeded  with  this  introductory  drill : 

'  *  Attintion !  Right  drish ! — be  that  token  is  mint 
That  aich  av  yez  keeps  his  next  neighbor  fernint. 
Shtand  up  like  mesilf ,  an'  look  martial  an'  brave, 
Wid  a  soldierly  bearin';  Mulcahey,  ye  knave. 
Don't  ye  offer  to  shtep  from  the  ranks — till  ye 
lave ! 


aBRANIGAirs  DRILL  2$ 

**  Attintion !     Fix  bayonets !     Jusht  for  the  drill, 
We  will  play  that  the  foe  is  a  houldin'  the  hill. 
Now,  quick,  double  char-r-r-r-ge !   an'  I'll  lade 

the  way; 
An'    this    is    yer    watchword — phwat    is    it? — 

Hooray!" 

But  the  captain  was  fat.     With  a  whoop  and  a 

cheer, 
His  men  darted  past  him,  till,  far  in  the  rear, 
He  panted:    "Shtop!     Halt!   till  I  come  to  me 

breath ; 
Give  O'Branigan  time  an'  he'll  lade  ye  till  death; 
Halt,  Rafferty,  Lafferty,  wait  till  I  come! 
Shtand  shtill,  an'  mark  time  to  the  bate  av  the 

drum. 
It  is  n't  the  rulable  usage  av  war 
To  follow  yer  captain — unless  he 's  before. 
Liftinant  Muldoon,  turn  the  min  right  about, 
Wid    their   noses    in    line    an*    their    breashts 

shtickin*  out 
Like  pigeons  drawn  up  on  the  top  av  a  fince. 
Make    ready — I  mane:     Come    ahead    there! — 

Commince ! 


26  aBRANIGAirS  DRILL 

Right — le]i — now,  left — right — no!   yer  le]t  legs 

are  right! 
Arrah !     Whisht !     Yer  right  legs  would  get  left 

in  a  fight ! 
Patsy,  look  at  ye!    hoppin'  wid  both  feet  at 

wance ! 
If  yell  turn  an'  jump  backward  perhaps  ye '11 

advance ! 
Right — ^left — now,    left — right — no!     yer    right 

legs  are  wrong! 
Keep  back  there,  Mulcahey,  yer  nose  is  too  long! 
Right — ^left — now,  left — right — now,  right — left 

— now,  left — right — 
Faix!     Ye 're  tangled  like  Kilkinnie  cats  in  a 

fight! 
Halt!    Shtop!    Turnaround!    Get  yernoses  in 

line: 
If  ye  knew  how  to  shtep,  ye  could  march  pur-r-ty 

fine! 

"  Attintion !    To  prove  to  our  foemen  their  folly, 
We'll  load  up  our  rifles  an'  give  thim  a  volley; 
An',  to  show  how  composed  a  bould  souldier  can 
sthand, 


aBRANIGANS  DRILL  2/ 

I  will  shtep  to  the  front  while  I  give  the  com- 
mand. 
Make  ready, — take  aim, — Patsy,  point  yer  gun 

higher ! 
Don't  shut  the  wrong  eye  whin  ye 're  aimin'  it 

—Fire! 
Och,  murther!    I'm  kilt!      Sargint  Murphy,  ye 

brute, 
Don't  ye  know,  whin  ye  ounly  blank  cartridges 

shoot, 
If  yer  ramrod  ye  happen  to  lave  in  yer  gun 
It's  more  deadly  than  twinty-eight  bullets  in 

wan? 
Jusht  look  at  me  hat  wid  its  horrible  rint, 
An'  its  iligant  aigle  to  smithereens  sint ! 
Ye 're  arrishted!     Mind  that!     Me  hat's  blood 

ye  have  shpilt! 
I  'd  have  hung  ye  for  murther  if  I  had  been  kilt ! 
An'   ye 're   Sargint  to-day  av  the  Guar-r-r-r-d, 

Murphy!     Whisht! 
Go  report  to  yersilf  as  put  under  arrisht!" 

Then  O'Branigan,  wishing  his  men  to  disband, 
But  forgetting  the  tactical  form  of  command 


28  aBRANIGAN  S  DRILL 

To  "break  ranks,"  with  a  quizzical  countenance 

turned : 
"Scatther   out,    me    Kilkinnies,    the    meetin's 

adjourned." 

So  closed  the  first  drill;  but  they  proved,  when 

the  field 
In  the  chaos  of  jarring  artillery  reeled. 
That,  to  quote  a  plain  soldier's  description,  "So 

far 
As  concerns  the  tough  tussle  and  business  of  war, 
O'Branigan's    flannel-mouthed    veterans    were 

therer 


HOW  THE  BATTLE  WAS  FOUGHT. 

The  fiercest  battle  av  the  war 

Our  rigimint  was  in 
Was  fought  five  miles  away  from  camp 

By  me  an'  Paddy  Flynn, 
Where  we  ingaged  the  inimy, — 

Full  forty  thousand  min. 

Widout  a  pass  we  passed  the  guard; 

The  past  comes  up  to  me ! 
An'  I  can  see  our  fearless  force, 

Wid  motions  bould  an'  free, 
March  bravely  through  the  ribel  land, — 

Dodgin'  from  tree  to  tree. 

We  left  the  woods,  we  crossed  the  hills; 

Plantations  shpread  around; 
The  purtiest  pigs  in  the  world  we  saw 

In  a  field  av  corn,  but  found, 
Whin  try  in'  to  shoot  thim  noiselessly, 

Our  theory  was  unsound. 
29 


30        HOW   THE  BATTLE    WAS  FOUGHT 

The  inimy  rose  up  behint 

The  corn  rows  in  the  field ; 
Thin  we  appealed  to  strategy, 

An'  loud  our  rifles  pealed, — 
Not  at  the  ribels,  but  the  pigs, 

An',  murther,  how  they  squealed! 

** Charge,  Pat!"  sez  I.     "Faix,  Mike,"  sez  he, 
"I'll  shtop  an'  charge  me  gun." 

"No,  Pat,"  sez  I,  "we'll  charge  the  pigs. 
An'  put  thim  on  the  run : 

They  '11  think  we  're  Sherman  in  the  corn. 
An'  scatther,  ivery  wan." 

"The  pigs?"  sez  he.     "The  Ribs!"  sez  I. 

An*  thin  we  raised  a  shout, 
An'  charged  the  pigs  till  each  wan  blew 

A  bugle  wid  its  shnout. 
An',  crashin'  toward  the  inimy, 

Put  ivery  wan  to  rout. 

"They're  gone!"  sez  I.     "Bad  luck!"  sez  he, 

"An'  not  a  rib  to  ate!" 
"Ate  Ribs!"  sez  I;  "ye  cannibal! 

On  yer  own  kind  to  bait!" 


HOW   THE  BATTLE    WAS  FOUGHT        3 1 

"Zounds,  Mike,  I'm  not  a  hog!"  sez  he, 
"Shpare-ribs  are  shpHndid  mate!" 

"Shpare  Ribs!"  sez  I,  "whin  I  ate  min 

I'd  rather  have  thim  fat." 
"Phwat  min?"  sez  he.     "The  Ribs!"  sez  I. 

"Ye 're  crazy,  Mike!"  sez  Pat. 
Sez  I,  "It's  ye  that's  crazy, 

An'  a  cannibal  at  that! 


"Ye'd  ate  dead  Ribels  Hke  a  hog, 

Widout  a  thought  av  sin! 
Come  on!     If  ye'd  ate  human  mate, 

Ye  might  as  well  begin; 
We  musht  have  killed  a  hundred 

Out  av  forty  thousand  min." 

"Phwat  min?"  sez  he.     "The  Ribs!"  sez  I. 

Thin  Paddy  Flynn  turned  white. 
Sez  he,  "  D'  ye  mane  the  Ribels,  Mike?" 

Sez  I,  "Me  b'y,  ye 're  right — 
Joe  Johnston's  army  that  we've  whipped 

In  the  fiercest  kind  av  fight." 


32        HOW   THE  BATTLE    WAS  FOUGHT 

"Whisht,  Mike !  Where  are  they  now? "  sez  he. 

"Faix,  Pat,  they've  run!"  sez  I. 
*' Phwat  did  they  run  from,  Mike?"  sez  he. 

"From  our  pigs  an'  guns,"  sez  I. 
" D'  ye  think  they  all  wint  off?"  sez  he. 

"Yis,  ivery  wan,"  sez  I. 

Sez  he,  "  How  did  ye  know  that  there 

Were  forty  thousand  min?" 
Sez  I,  "I  heard  thim  cock  their  guns 

Behind  the  corn,  an'  thin " 

Sez  he,  "We'd  betther  shtart  for  camp 

Before  they  come  ag'in!" 

"No,  Pat,"  sez  I,  "we'll  hould  the  field!'* 

Jusht  thin  a  bugle  blew, 
An'  a  shquad  av  Ribel  cavalry 

Came  driftin'  into  view 
Two  miles  away !     Thin  Patsy  wint ! 

Moreover,  /  wint,  too! 


"REMIMBER  KATHLANE" 

"Now,  Larrie  and  Jimraie,  be  off  to  yer  bed. 

It 's  ten  by  the  clock  if  it 's  anything — whisht ! 
Yer  father  is  coming,  as  drunk  as  a  baste ; 

ShHp  under  the  quilts,  or  ye '11  feel  his  fisht! 

" I  have  struggled  to  be  a  good  wife  to  Tim; 
But  he  niver  shall  bate  the  poor  lads  any 
more! 
An'  I'm  bound  to  have  pace  in  the  house  to- 
night,— 
If  this  poker  can  lay  him  to  shleep  on  the  floor ! 

**Tim!     Tim!     Have  ye  come  to  me  sober,  to- 
night ? 
Oh,  Tim!     Are  ye  sober?     Dear  Tim,  tell  me 
quick ! 
Oh!  ye  darlint,  otild  shplindid,  ould  sober,  ould 
Tim! 
I'm  so  glad  ye  are  sober.      But,  Tim,  are  ye 
sick, 

33 


34  ''  REMIMBER  KATHLANE'' 

That  ye  passed  the  saloons  widout  tastin'  a  drop, 
Whin  yer  t'roat  was  so  dry,  an'  ye  wanted  to 
shtop?" 

**I  am  sober,   Kathlane.     Where's  Larrie  an' 
Jimmie  ? 
For  ounly  this  moment  I  peeped  in  between 
The  rags  in  the  windy  an'  saw  thim  both  here; 
Ye  have  shlipped  thim  to  bed  in  a  hurry, 
Kathlane." 

**  Yes,  Tim.     But,  dear  Tim,  don't  be  angry  wid 
me; 
I  heard  ye,  an'  feared  ye  were  drunk,  an* 
would  bate 
The  darlint  gossoons,  so  I  hurried  thim  off, 
An'  they  bounced  into  bed  with  the  brogues 
on  their  feet." 

"Kathlane,  shweet  Kathlane,  it's  a  bashte  I 

have  been; 

But  I  '11  niver  bate  ye  nor  the  boys  any  more. 

But,  answer  an'  tell  me  the  mainin',  Kathlane, 

Of  this  ugly  ould  poker  ye  dropped  on  the 

floor?" 


"  REM  1MB ER   KA  THLANE  "  35 

"  Och!  Tim,  ye  are  full  of  yer  questions  to-night. 

I'd  been  pokin'  the  fire  a  little,  an'  thin 
I  thought  I  'd  jusht  hould  the  ould  poker  awhile 

To  save  throuble,  for  fear  I   might  need  it 
agin." 

"Kathlane,    it    is    strange!     Whin    I    peeped 

through  the  pane 
An'  the  rags,  the  ould  poker  shtood  yonder, 
Kathlane ; 
An'  did  n't  I  hear,  as  I  shtood  by  the  door, 
That  I  niver  should  bate  the  poor  lads  any 
more? 
Did  the  ould  poker  second  the  motion,  Kath- 
lane, 
An'  fall  in  a  fit  of  pure  joy  on  the  floor? 

"Hould  up  yer  dear  head!     I  don't  blame  ye, 
Kathlane. 
Hould  up  yer  dear  head;   for  I  see  the  white 
hair 
Has  crept  all  too  soon  through  yer  tresses,  Kath- 
lane, 
An'  yer  face  has  grown  weary  an'  wrinkled 
wid  care. 


36  "  REMIMBER  KA  THLANE  ** 

Hould  tip  yer  dear  head!     I  have  something  to 

say 
That,  maybe,  will  drive  the  poor  wrinkles  away." 

"  Don't  hurry,  dear  Tim !     Keep  yer  hand  on  me 

head ; 
'T  is  the  ould  loving  touch  that  ye  gave  me 

whin  young. 
Shpake  gintly,  an'  slow,  wid  the  voice  that  to 

me 
Was  the  shweetest  of  music  that  iver  was  sung. 
Shpake   slowly,   dear  Tim;    don't   hurry   thim 

past, — 
These  momints  of  joy  far  too  happy  to  last." 

* '  Kathlane ,  they  shall  last !     M  e  darlint ,  to-night 
As  I  walked  down  the  shtreet,  whin  I  came  to 
the  door 
Of  Pat  Rowlin's  saloon,  where  I  take  me  first 
drink, 
I  niver  thought  else  than  to  shtop,  but  before 
I  entered,  a  voice  whishpered  gintle  an'  plain 
In  me  ear,  an'  it  whishpered,  *  Remimber  Kath- 
lane!' 


''  REMIMBER  KATHLANE"  37 

"Somehow,  me  desire  for  whiskey  was  gone 

Till  I  came  to  the  bar  of  ould  Teddy  McShane ; 
Thin,  oh!    how  I  wanted  to  drink!       But  the 
voice 
Drove  me  thirst  all  away  wid   'Remimber 
Kathlane!' 

"I  wandered  for  miles  up  an'  down  the  long 
shtreets 
To  escape  from  the  voice,  but,  me  darlint, 
't  was  vain ; 
For  wheriver  I  wint,  fell  the  words  on  me  ear, 
So  sayseless  an'  mournful,  '  Remimber  Kath- 
lane!' 

"  'T  was  the  voice  of  me  love  that  had  shlum- 
bered  so  long 
In  the  night  wid  which  whiskey  had  deadened 
me  brain. 
Unthinkin',  I  wint  to  the  Timperance  Hall; 
Thin  the  voice  plead,  so  shweetly,  '  Remimber 
Kathlane!' 

"I  entered,  an'  shlipped  to  a  sate  in  the  rear. 
Behind  all  the  rest,  that  I  might  not  be  seen; 


38  ''REMIMBER  KATHLANE" 

An'  shpaikers  were  shpaikin',  but  all  I  could  hear 
Was,  '  Remimber,  remimber,  remimber  Kath- 
lane ! ' 

**They  brought  me  the  pledge,  an'  they  axed  me 
to  sign. 

I  took  it,  but  somehow  a  misht  fell  between 
Me  eyes  an'  the  pen ; — an',  instead  of  Tim  Flynn, 

I  found  I  had  written,  '  Remimber  Kathlane! ' 

"Thin  I  wrote  underneath  it  me  name!    an'  I 
felt 
Shweet  pace  in  me  soul,  an'  a  power  to  sus- 
tain; 
An'  if  iver  timptation  should  come  to  me  now, 
Remimber,  me  dear,  I  '11  remimber  Kathlane.' 


BARNEY  MULDOON 

THE    "VANUS    DE    SHILOH  " 

Yis,  sorr,  I  was  wounded  at  Shiloh, 
For  Barney  Muldoon  did  his  duty; 

I'm  a  ginuine  Vanus  de  Milo, 

That  is,  of  course,  barrin'  the  beauty; 

For  the  Vanus  has  lost  both  her  arrums, 
An',  be  jabers,  I 've  lost  both  of  mine; 

I  'm  her  counterpart,  barrin'  the  charrums, 
An'  we're  both  in  the  mindicant  line. 

They  paints  the  poor  girl  on  a  pannel 

An'  hangs  her  up  over  a  shilf ; 
We  are  both  in  sore  need  of  some  flannel, 

An'  it 's  laid  on  the  shilf  is  mesilf . 

Yet  she's  a  perpitual  shleeper, 

So  between  us  there  comes  this  dishparity, 
For  I  can  shtill  open  wan  peeper 

To  behould  the  extint  of  yer  charity. 
39 


40  BARNEY  MULDOON 

God  bless  ye!  says  Barney  Muldoon, 
For  this  coat  for  the  Vanus  de  Shiloh; 

If  ye  '11  give  me  a  five-dollar  boon 
I  will  shpind  it  for  Vanus  de  Milo ! 

Oh,  yis!     It  is  grand  to  get  shkars 

Whin  the  needs  of  yer  country  require  'em. 

I  would  pack  forty  guns  to  the  wars, 
If  I  ounly  had  fingers  to  fire  'em. 

Yet  wan  thing  is  lackin*  to  me : 

Could  I  truthfully  tell  the  brave  shtory 

That  I  died  for  me  country,  I  'd  be 

All  me  life  jusht  a-shwimmin'  in  glory. 


THE  TWO  BRIDGETS 

It  is  throubled,  I  am,  over  Bridget's  intint 

In  returnin'  me  purty  bouquet. 
She  might  have  explained,  I  am  sure,  phwat  she 

mint ; 
She  could  n't  have  read  the  shweet  note  that  I 
sint, 
Or  she  would  n't  have  served  me  that  way. 

I  tould  her  me  roses  would  pale 

Whin  kissed  by  her  rosier  lips ; 
The  pride  of  me  lilies  would  fail 

At  the  touch  of  her  fingers'  fair  tips. 
I  tould  her  the  blue  of  her  eyes 

Was  deeper  than  violets  knew, 
That  the  pink  of  her  cheeks  would  surprise 

Me  pinks  wid  their  dilicate  hue ; 
That  her  breath  was  the  incense  of  bloom 

Distilled  from  the  censers  of  May, 
Sweeter  far  than  the  softest  perfume 

Of  the  flowers  in  me  purty  bouquet. 
41 


42  THE    TWO  BRIDGETS 

I  tould  of  me  love  for  her,  tould 

How,  in  draimin',  her  faitures  I  conned, 
How  her  hair  was  a  halo  of  gould, 

An'  I  called  her  "Me  Bridget,  me  blonde!' 
I  tould  her — phwat  else  did  I  write? — 

Ahone!     Let  me  raid  me  poor  note: 
"  Yer  hair  it  is  blacker  than  night — " 

Och,  murther!     Is  this  phwat  I  wrote? — 
"Dear  Bridget,  this  purty  bouquet 

Is  a  symbol  of  sintiments  thrue, 
That  mesilf,  which  is  Dinnis  McCray, 

Is  afther  expressin'  to  you. 
But  its  roses  will  pale  in  the  light 

Of  yer  shplindid  dark  Spanish  complexion, 
That  has  filled  me  poor  soul  wid  delight, 

An'  me  mouth  wid  a  dumb  interjection. 
The  fire  in  yer  eye  is  the  blaze 

Of  a  soul  in  a  censer  of  jet ; 
Let  it  shine  on  me  heart,  if  ye  plaze, 

Me  Bridget,  me  queenly  brunette! 
They  may  talk  about  tresses  of  gould, 

An'  cheeks  that  are  redder  than  roses, 
Forgettin'  they  often  behould 

The  same  tints  on  intimperate  noses!" 


THE    TWO  BRIDGETS  43 

Me  soul  is  in  ashes !     Ahone ! 

It 's  the  letter  I  posted  last  fall 
To  that  hideous  Bridget  Malone! 

An'  she  would  n't  accept  me  at  all! 

It 's  surprised  I  am  not  at  blonde  Bridget's  intint 

In  returnin'  me  purty  bouquet. 
Och !  Here 's  the  blonde  note  that  I  wrote ! — Thin 

I  wint, 
An'  the  copy  I  saved  of  black  Bridget's  I  sint! 

Bad  luck  to  me,  Dinnis  McCray! 


KATHLEEN  O'DORN 

It  was  even  before  you  were  born,  me  dear, 

While  I  still  was  a  bit  of  a  b'y, 
That  I  loved  the  sweet  name  of  O'Dom,  me  dear, 

Though,  of  course,  I  could  niver  tell  why. 
For  I  niver  had  heard  the  name  spoken, 
But  I  knew  by  a  mystical  token 
I  would  marry,  some  day,  an  O'Dom,  me  dear, 

With  the  blue  of  the  sky  in  her  eye. 

An'  I  knew  her  dear  name  was  Kathleen,  me 
dear. 
That  her  voice  was  exceedingly  sweet. 
That  her  hair  was  a  glittering  sheen,  me  dear, 

Falling  down  to  her  beautiful  feet. 
An'  she  came  to  me  oft  in  me  dreaming, 
With  her  gintle  eyes  tinderly  beaming. 
An'  I  knew  that  her  name  was  Kathleen,  me 
dear. 
By  the  light  of  her  countenance  sweet. 
44 


KATHLEEN  O'DORN  45 

Oh!  I  loved  her  so  tinderly  then,  me  dear, 

I  very  Une  of  her  dilicate  face, 
An'  I  sought  her  again  an'  again,  me  dear, 

In  ivery  conceivable  place; 
For  the  voice  of  the  linnet  and  starling 
Seemed  to  chirrup,  "Me  darling!     Me  darling!" 
An'  the  leaves  in  the  woodland  an'  glen,  me  dear, 

Hummed  a  song  of  her  goodness  an'  grace. 

Ah!  they  were  no  changeable  fancies,  me  dear, 

I  could  paint  ivery  wave  in  her  hair ; 
There  fell  on  me  eyes  the  same  glances,  me  dear. 

Though  I  wandered  from  Cork  to  Kildare. 
An'  I  knew  I  would  know  her  whiniver 
I'd  meet  her;  for  God,  the  All-Giver, 
Lends  no  hope  that  a  heart  so  entrances,  me 
dear. 
But  He  adds  the  fruition  of  prayer. 

So  I  met  you  Sint  Valentine's  morn,  me  dear, 

Than  me  radiant  vision  more  sweet, 
An'  I  knew  that  your  name  was  O'Dorn,  me 
dear. 


46  KATHLEEN  O'DORN 

An'  me  soul  straightway  bowed  at  your  feet, 
Before  even  a  word  had  been  spoken; 
But  your  eyes  gave  the  answering  token ; 
It  was  then  that  fruition  was  born,  me  dear, 

Kathleen,  of  me  vision  so  sweet! 


PADDY  O'SHILF 

(There  are  well  authenticated  cases  of  persons  who, 
on  account  of  accident  to  the  brain  or  of  some  un- 
natural pressure  on  that  organ,  have  lost  all  sense  of 
personal  identity:  and,  having  wandered  away  from 
home  and  friends,  have  been  found  after  the  lapse  of 
years  among  strangers,  living  under  a  different  name 
and  without  any  recollection  of  their  former  lives.) 

How   I  came  by  me  name,   which   is   Paddy 

O'Shilf, 
I   don't  know,   nor,   indeed,    how    I   came   by 

mesilf. 
The  shweet,  rosy  fancies  av  infancy's  mom 
Niver  blissed  me  young  life,  for  I  niver  was  born. 
I   was  niver   a   child, — it's   the   truth    I   have 

tould, — 
For  the  first  thing  I  knew  I  was  forty  years  ould : 
And,  what  is  more  strange,  on  me  very  first  day 
Me  clothes  they  were  ragged,  me  hair  it  was 

gray; 
I  had  feet  that  were  tinder  wid  thrampin'  the 

sod, 
And  a  corn  on  me  shoulder  from  bearin'  the  hod. 

47 


48  PADDY  aSHILF 

Oh!    you  who  have  parints,  or  iver  have  had 

'em, — 
And  ivery  wan  has  except  me  and  poor  Adam, — 
Don't  scorn  the  sad  shtory,  the  sorrowful  riddle 
Av  a  poor  lad  whose  life  was  comminced  in  the 

middle ! 
Here  I  am — a  great  hog  that  was  niver  a  pig ! 
A  crooked  ould  tree  that  was  niver  a  twig ! 
A  wild,  rovin'  cat  that  was  niver  a  kitten! 
A  postcript  to  a  letter  that  niver  was  written! 
A  flame  widout  fuel,  a  lafe  widout  limb; 
A  great,  awkward  pumpkin  widout  any  shtim! 

At  first,  I  could  hardly  belave  me  own  shtory, 
That  no  parints  av  mine  had  prayceded  before 

me: 
From  graveyard  to  graveyard  I  wandered  and 

read 
On  aich  desolate  tombstone  the  name  av  the 

dead; 
But  niver  a  tomb  have  I  iver  found  yet 
Wid  the  ipitaph :  "  Here  lies  the  mither  av  Pat ! " 

Av  the  long  ginerations  both  livin'  an'  dead 
I  'm  the  ounly  relation  I  iver  have  had — 


PADDY  aSHILF  49 

Except  wan,  me  grandfather:   'twas  down  in 

Killarney 
I  found  his  dear  tomb.     Though  his  first  name 

was  Barney, 
His  last  was  O'Shilf !      An'  though  my  name  is 

Pat, 
I  'm  sure  he 's  a  rilitive  spite  av  all  that ; 
For  how  in  the  worruld  could  he  be  an  O'Shilf 
Widout  bein'  some  kind  av  a  kin  to  mesilf  ? 

Eighty  years  o'er  his  tomb  had  the  shamrock 

grown  green 
And  the  ivy  clung  close ;  but  I  read  in  between 
The  shweet  laves  his  dear  name,  and  wept  whin 

it  tould 
Me  poor  grandfather  died  whin  jusht  twinty 

days  ould! 
But  if  he  had  lived  I  am  sure  he  would  be 
Grandfather,  or — something-or- other  to  me. 

How  oft  in  me  thramps  whin  I  shlept  in  a  shed. 
While  the  rain  beat  tattoos  on  the  roof  overhead, 
I  have  felt  in  me  draims  a  soft  hand  on  me 

cheek — 
While  I  lay  like  a  rogue,  too  dishonest  to  shpaik, 


50  PADDY  aSHILF 

Lest  the  shweet  vision-mither  who  shtood  by  me 

thin, 
Should  diskiver  her  babe   was  a  middle-aged 

man! 

Whin  falls  the  black  night  av  me  loneliness  o'er 

me, 
Wid  the  thought  that  no  mither  av  mine  lived 

before  me, 
So  shtrong  grow  the  longin's  that  burden  me 

mind 
For  a  mither,  I  know  if  I  iver  should  find 
A  woman,  or  aivin  a  man  who  would  be 
A  mither,  or  aivin  shtep-mither  to  me, 
Ah!    I'd  draw  mesilf  up  jusht  as  shmall  as  I 

could 
Till    I'd   look   like    an    innocent    infant    child 

should : 
How  I  'd  shpread  out  me  hands !     How  I  'd  dig 

for  me  eyes! 
How  I'd  see  the  big  world  wid  a  look  av  sur- 
prise ! 
How  I'd  puff  out  me  cheeks!     How  I'd  crow! 

How  I'd  choke! 


PADDY   O'SHILF  5 1 

How  I  'd  laugh  whin  me  mither,  or  shtep-mither 

shpoke ! 
Oh,  the  bUss  for  a  momint  a  baby  to  be 
And  weep  for  pure  joy  wid  me  head  on  her  knee ! 
I  would  aivin  submit  to  be  larrupped  an'  bate 
By  her^  though  it  be  wid  the  brogues  from  her 

feet. 
I'd  rejice  at  the  pain,  an'  would   chirish   aich 

scar 
As  a  pricious  an'  tinder  reminder  av  her. 


MISCELLANEOUS  VERSE 


53 


IN  THE  GRINDING  OF  THE  DRIFT 

'T  WAS  a  little  Southern  town, 
By  the  river  nestling  down. 
Quaint  and  quiet,  tucked  away 
From  the  busy  world,  it  lay 
Where  the  stranger  seldom  found  it, 
With  its  cypress  swamps  around  it. 

Rain,  from  morning  until  night ; 

Rain  through  darkness  till  the  dawn — 
Time  for  dawn ;  but  scarce  the  light 

Pierced  the  veil  the  world  had  on, 
And  the  night  came  down  again. 
Softly  in  her  robes  of  rain. 
Peaceful  lay  the  village,  covered 

By  a  silence  strangely  deep ; 
For  the  human  brood  was  hovered 

'Neath  the  drowsy  wings  of  sleep. 

55 


56       IN   THE   GRINDING  OF   THE  DRIFT 

But  the  cypress  stained  lagoons, 
Nature's  sombre  souled  quadroons, 
Felt  the  tonic  of  the  rain 
Stealing  through  each  sluggish  vein, 
And  through  deep  and  dismal  fens 
Slid  they  from  their  slimy  dens, 
Whispering  low:  "We  come,  we  come! 

Lead  us,  river,  strong  and  free! 
We  will  sound  Death's  muffled  drum 

From  the  cypress  to  the  sea." 
So  the  river  heard  the  tramp 

Of  the  waters  through  the  night ; 
Saw  the  demon  of  the  swamp 

Swing  his  jack-o'-lantern  light. 

Silent  as  an  army  stealing 

On  its  unsuspecting  foe. 
Roar  of  rain  its  steps  concealing, 

Rose  the  river  from  below; 
Climbed  the  hill  with  stealthy  tread, 
Sent  its  skirmish  waves  ahead, 
Captured  each  unguarded  boat, 
Set  the  wooden  walks  afloat. 
Turned  the  streets  to  rivers  wide, 


IN   THE   GRINDING   OF   THE   DRIFT       57 

Touched  the  houses,  stole  inside, 
CHmbing  higher  still  and  higher 
Till  it  sang  amidst  the  fire. 
While  the  embers  answered,  screaming. 

But  the  warning  was  in  vain, 
For  the  people  lay  a-dreaming 

To  the  lullaby  of  rain. 

Suddenly  the  thunder  spoke 

Till  the  world  rocked  to  and  fro, 

And  the  little  town  awoke 
In  the  clutches  of  its  foe. 

"It  is  mine!"  the  tempest  cried. 

"  No !     'T  is  mine ! "  the  flood  replied, 

"Mine!     The  water-spout  has  sent  me 

Reinforcements.     It  is  mine!" 
Roared  the  hideous  cloud:  "Content  thee! 

Wreck  and  ruin  join  the  line!" 

Burying  deep  the  cypress  knees, 
Rushed  the  furious  waters  down. 

And  with  battering-rams  of  trees 
Smote  and  crushed  the  little  town. 


58       IN   THE   GRINDING   OF   THE  DRIFT 

What  was  man?     A  being  dizzy 

In  the  terrible  uplift. 
What  was  home  ?     A  fragile  bubble 

In  the  grinding  of  the  drift. 
What  was  love  ?     A  lifetime  focused 

In  an  agonizing  kiss, 
Seeking  still  one  last  expression 

Through  the  water's  angry  hiss. 
What  was  life?     A  lighted  taper, 

Which  the  furious  tide  put  out. 
What  remained?     One  stubborn  chimney, 

With  the  waters  all  about. 


LITTLE  TEE-HEE 

It  was  over  the  sea,  in  the  land  of  tea, 
By  the  beautiful  river  they  call  Yang-Tse, 
To  which  an  additional  name  they  hang 
Making  the  river  Yang-Tse- Kiang, 
A  baby  was  bom  in  a  Chinese  town ; 
But  a  look  of  scorn  and  a  terrible  frown 
On  the  face  of  the  father  was  seen  to  curl. 
When  he  learned  that  the  baby  was  only  a  girl. 

Now  the  father,  whose  name  was  Hang  U.  High, 
Was  the  last  of  the  race  of  the  great  I.  Ligh, 
The  father  of  Chinese  history. 
He  was  very  proud  of  his  pedigree, 
And  even  declared  that  his  lineage  ran 
In  a  line  direct  to  the  very  first  man. 
His  greatest  ambition  was  now  to  see 
Another  limb  on  his  family  tree, 
A  boy  who  could  finally  step  in  his  place, 
Down  the  race-course  of  time  to  continue  his 
race; 

59 


60  LITTLE    TEE-HEE 

But    alas    for  his  hopes!       *Xhug  um  whirl! 

Chug  um  whirl!" 
He  muttered,  which  means,  "  It 's  a  girl!     It 's  a 

girl!" 
And    he    angrily    hissed,    "Clack    whang    bog 

lound!" 
Which  means  in  their  language,  "It  must  be 

drowned!" 

Though  the  mother,  in  words  that  sound  im- 
prudent, 
Insipidly  pleaded,  "  Oh,  Hang  U.     /  would  n't!" 
He  sternly  answered,  "Clack  whang  bo  quid!" 
Which  means  in  their  language,  "It  must  be 

did." 
So  he  called  his  servant  and  said,  "  Ar  Chang, 
Go  drown  that  thing  in  the  river  Kiang"; 
Then  turned  away,  with  an  angry  glare. 
To  smoke  his  pipe  in  the  open  air. 

But  the  good  Ar  Chang  had  a  tender  heart. 
He  saw  it  was  hard  for  the  mother  to  part 
From  her  little  girl,  yet,  strange  to  tell, 
The  sorrow  that  on  his  heart-strings  fell 
Affected  the  strings  of  his  purse  as  well. 


LITTLE    TEE-HEE  6l 

Still  he  could  n't  think  what  in  the  world  to  do, 
And  he  stood  in  agony  clutching  his  queue 
And  pulling  it  downward  until  he  drew 
His  eyes  clear  up  to  the  top  of  his  head, 
Till  they  looked  like  long  diagonal  gashes 
Stretched  over  his  forehead  and  fringed  with 

lashes ; 
Then,  letting  them  down, — "  I  have  it ! "  he  said. 
But  the  rest  that  he  said  I  will  tell  to  thee 
In  the  very  words  it  was  told  to  me 
By  that  honest,  efficient,  and  noble  Chinee 
Who  charged  me  two  prices  for  my  "washee." 
He  said:    "I  got  gul-ee  same  old  like  this, — 
Got  too  much-ee  gul-ee ;  my  wife-ee  no  miss 
One  gul-ee.     Ah  Chang  save-ee  yo'  gul-ee  life; 
I  take-ee  yd'  gul-ee  light  home  to  my  wife, 
I  dlown-ee  my  gul-ee  in  liver  Kiang! 
You  give-ee  much  money  to  poo*  Ah  Chang!" 
Then  gratitude  stole  down  the  beautiful  slants 
Of  the  mother's  long  eyes,  and  she  gave  such  a 

glance 
Of  approval,  he  cried,  *'  I  would  lather  be  Chang, 
And    serve    such    a    generous    mistless,    than 

Hang!" 


62  LITTLE    TEE'HEE 

He  carried  Tee-Hee  to  his  own  little  hut, 

Where  the  floors  were  of  dirt  and  the  frescos  of 
soot, 

And  said  to  his  wife,  **  I  have  swapped  for  Tee- 
Hee. 

We  must  dlown-ee  our  gul-ee  in  liver  Yang- 
Tse,— 

And  our  mistless  she  give-ee  much  money  to 
we!" 

"I  will  go,"  answered  she,  **and  wrap  Minnee 
Ting  Loo 

In  Tee-Hee's  little  mantle  and  bring  her  to 
you," 

And  then,  with  a  smile  of  approval,  withdrew. 

Now  it  chanced  Mrs.  Chang  had  the  masculine 

art 
Of  "playing  it  low"  and  concealing  her  heart. 
In  short,  of  enacting  a  duplicate  part. 
For,  expecting  a  time  when  her  husband  would 

say,— 
**  We  are  poor ;  we  '11  put  Minnee  Ting  out  of  the 

way," 
She  had  built  a  rag  baby  with  marvellous  skill, 


LITTLE    TEE-HEE  63 

Placed  a  spring  here  and  there  for  the  sake  of 

the  wriggle, 
Supplied  its  small  chest   with  a  bladder   and 

quill, 
So  that  touch  it  who  would  the  rag  baby 

would  giggle; 
Just  the  size  of  Ting  Loo, — she  had  measured 

and  weighed  it. 
And  now,  with  the  skill  she  had  learned  when 

she  made  it. 
She  pinned  on  the  cloak  past  all  hope  of  un- 
doing, 
And,  bearing  it  so  as  to  start  it  to  cooing, 
Right  into  the  arms  of  her  husband  she  laid  it. 
Thus  Chang  bore  it  down  to  the  river  Kiang, 
But  happened,  in  passing  the  vigilant  Hang, 
To  stumble,  which  caused  it  to  kick  and  to  coo, 
Till  Hang  cried,  "Away!     I  '11  accompany  you. 
I  never  can  rest  till  it 's  safe  in  the  water,     . 
Lest  the  mother  has  bribed  you  to  rescue  my 

daughter." 
Then  quick  in  the  pitiless  river  they  threw 
What  to  Hang  was  Tee-Hee  and  to  Chang  was 

Ting  Loo. 


64  LITTLE    TEE-HEE 

Each  day,  while  the  notable  Hang  U.  High 
Was  reading  the  books  of  the  great  I.  Ligh, 
His  wife  stole  away  to  the  hut  of  Ar  Chang, 
While  Chang  acted  spy  o'er  the  motions  of  Hang. 
But  Chang  never  dreamed  as  he  watched  by  the 

wall 
To  give  warning  if  Hang  at  his  hovel  should  call, 
That  his  dear  little  wife  from  its  hiding-place 

drew 
The  only  original  Minnee  Ting  Loo, 
Nor  supposed,  as  he  stretched  to  its  limit  each 

limb 
To  peep  at  his  master,  that  out  of  the  dim 
Of  his  hovel  two  mothers  kept  watch  upon  him. 
And  it  never  occurred  to  Hang  U.  High, 
As  he  studied  the  books  of  the  great  I.  Ligh, 
That,  instead  of  retrenching  on  Little  Tee-Hee 
By  drowning  the  child  in  the  river  Yang-Tse, 
His  lucre  provided  provisions  for  three. 


THE  BELLS  THAT  MADE  HER  MINE" 

I  THINK  no  life  had  ever  led 
In  quieter  paths  than  mine ; 

I  never  had  seen  a  circus,  nor 
Crossed  over  the  county  line ; 

I  had  hoed  potatoes  and  gathered  corn 

On  the  same  old  farm  where  I  was  born 
Till  the  age  of  twenty-nine. 

For  years  I  longed  for  woman's  love, 

With  a  longing  of  no  avail ; 
I  worshipped  the  sex  in  the  aggregate 

And  dodged  them  in  detail. 
Bashful?     Of  me  't  was  often  said, 
A  woman  would  turn  my  ears  blood-red 

And  my  cheeks  a  ghastly  pale. 

There  came  a  day  I  '11  not  forget 
Through  all  the  years  to  come, 

When  business  sternly  drove  me  forth 
Full  fifty  miles  from  home ; 

65 


66     ''THE  BELLS   THAT  MADE  HER  MINE'' 

And,  trembling,  lest  in  country  ways 

Each  stranger  I  'd  accost 
Would  speak  to  me,  I  hurried  on 

Until  my  way  I  lost. 

But  fate — it  seems  an  angel  now, 

It  seemed  that  day  a  churl — 
Blocked  up  my  narrow,  woodland  way 

With  the  prettiest  country  girl. 
She  looked  at  me  with  startled  eyes ; 

I  felt  my  blushes  burn ; 
I  would  have  flown  had  I  not  been 

Too  bashful  far  to  turn. 

I  could  but  stammer  as  I  said 
To  her,  **  Good-morning,  ma'am." 

(*T  was  almost  night !)     "I 've  lost  my  way; 
Please  tell  me  where  I  am." 

Then  she,  with  timid,  girlish  grace, 

And  slightly  deepening  hue, 
Spake  low,  in  tones  full  tremulous : 

"  I 'm  lost  as  well  as  you! 
I  started  out  to  find  the  cows ; 

I  thought  I  heard  the  bell; 


"  THE  BELLS   THA  T  MADE  HER  MINE  "  67 

But  where  they  are,  or  where  is  home, 
I'm  sure  I  cannot  tell!" 

O,  miracle  of  woman's  voice! 

For  with  that  trembling  tone 
She  touched  the  key  to  manhood's  strength; 

My  diffidence  had  flown. 
"Fear  not,"  I  said,  "no  danger  lurks 

Within  this  forest.     Come; 
I ' ve  heard  the  bells  not  far  away ; 

The  cows  shall  lead  us  home." 

Then  through  the  wood's  sweet  solitudes, 

O'er  hills  with  moss  embossed, 
I  walked  contented  by  her  side. 

Full  glad  that  we  were  lost. 
The  cow-bells  clanged  across  the  hills, 

Bells  tinkled  in  my  heart ; 
The  cows  turned  homeward  lazily, 

I  grieved  to  see  them  start. 

The  night  came  down.  The  moon's  soft  beams 
Through  June's  green  mantle  stole; 

A  sweet  night -blooming  cereus 
Had  blossomed  in  my  soul. 


68      ''THE  BELLS   THAT  MADE  HER  MINE 

I  've  heard  the  brooks  in  cozy  nooks 

Sing  sweeter  than  a  bird; 
But  music  Uke  her  mellow  voice 

No  mortal  ever  heard. 

The  cows  moved  homewards  lazily, 

I  did  not  care  to  chide ; 
A  mystic  spell  around  us  fell, 

And  heaven  was  at  my  side. 
The  spell  that  bound  us  binds  us  still 

With  golden  bands,  to  prove 
My  dross  had  changed  to  gold  beneath 

The  alchemy  of  love. 

I  hear  the  bells  across  the  hills, 
And  bless  the  lingering  kine 

That  led  my  love  so  far  from  home, 
And  the  bells  that  made  her  mine. 


TIMOTHY  HORN 

The  most  marvellous  mortal  that  ever  was  bom. 
You  would  say,  had  you  known  him,  was  Tim- 
othy Horn. 
Tall,  bony,  and  broad — an  angular  giant, 
And  awkward  as  well;    yet  his  limbs  were  so 

pliant 
They  seemed,  when  he  used  them,  like  rainbows 

in  trouble, 
Whose  motions  no  word  could  describe  except 

"wabble." 
And  yet,  strange  to  say,  in  the  country,  where 

Tim 
Felt  confident  no  one  was  looking  at  him, 
His  step  was  as  firm  and  his  carriage  as  free 
And  stately  as  ever  Apollo's  could  be. 
It  was  only  a  habit,  through  modesty  born. 

Of  trying  to  walk  without  drawing  attention. 
Which  gave  to  the  movements  of  Timothy  Horn 
The  boneless,  loose,  limber  appearance  I  men- 
tion. 

69 


70  TIMOTHY  HORN 

Always  first  at  a  fire,  and  first  through  the  flame, 
To  rescue  the  inmates,  half-roasted  and  chok- 
ing, 

He  returned  with  his  arms  full  of  people,  but 
came 
With  his  hair  and  his  eyebrows  white-crinkled 
and  smoking; 

And  then,  if  they  thanked  him,  so  strange  was 
his  habit. 

He  'd  take  the  first  byway  and  run  like  a  rabbit. 

One  night,  as  he  sat  by  his  mother  and  read 

A  story  of  courtship,  she  stopped  him  and  said 

Very  gently,  "Dear  Tim,  you  are  now  twenty- 
eight. 

Don't  you  think  it  is  time  you  were  taking  a 
mate?" 

*'0h!  mother,  who'd  have  such  a  great,  awk- 
ward fel " 

But  the  word  was  cut  short  by  the  clang  of  a 
bell, 

And  away  to  the  fire  sped  Timothy  Horn. 

'T  was  the  six-storied  house  of  Professor  Van 
Dom, 


TIMOTHY  HORN  J I 

Who  had  built  it,  expressly,  uncommonly  high, 

The  better  to  study  the  air  and  the  sky, 

With  a  vision  unvexed  by  the  smoke  from  the 
town. 
The  Professor  himself  had  gone  up  to  an  air- 
way, 

To  shut  off  the  draught,  and  he  could  n't  get 
down. 
For  the  demon  of  flame  was  cremating  the 
stairway ; 

But,  forgetting  himself  in  his  love  for  the  sci- 
ences, 

Van  Dorn  brought  some  strange  scientific  appli- 
ances 

To  the  sixth-story  window,  sat  down  his  barom- 
eter. 

And,  holding  aloft  his'  new  patent  thermometer, 

Grew  absorbed  in  a  theme  he  would  call  thera- 
peutical— 

The  effect  of  the  heat  on  a  wart  on  his  cuticle. 

They  shouted  to  warn  him;  but,  horror  appall- 
ing, 

The  roof  was  ablaze  and  the  rafters  were  falling. 

Alas!  he  was  far  above  human  assistance, 


72  TIMOTHY  HORN 

For  their  ladder  would  only  reach  half  of  the 

distance, 
And  a  son  of  old  Ireland  muttered,  "Begorry! 
If    he    only    had    builded    his    bashtely    sixth 

shtory 
Jusht  under  the  third,  we  could  rishcue  him 

nately ; 
But  now  he'll  be  cooked  an'  dishfigured  com- 

plately!" 
A  thousand  pale  faces  looked  up  at  Van  Dorri, 
When  in  through  the  circle  sprang  Timothy 

Horn, 
Caught  a  shawl  from  the  form  of  the  scientist's 

daughter, 
And,  plunging  it  deep  in  a  bucket  of  water, 
Enveloped  his  head  before  any  one  spoke, 
Sprang  up  the  red  stairs,  and  was  lost  in  the 

smoke. 
Brave  men  held  their  breath,  but  they  saw  in  a 

minute 
The  shawl  at  the  window,  the  Professor  rolled  in 

it; 
Then  it  vanished,  and  then — the  roof  fell!     The 

floors  under 


TIMOTHY  HORN  73 

Were  torn  from  their  places  and  hurled  to  the 

ground 
With  such  a  concussion  the  air  all  around 
Was  a  chaos  of  ashes  and  cinders  and  thunder. 
They  are  lost!     They  are  saved! — As  if  blown 
by  the  fall, 
Tim  shot  from  the  house  like  a  blazing  red 
comet,  or 
Anything  sudden,  and  shook  from  the  shawl 
The  Professor,  still  holding  his  precious  ther- 
mometer. 
Who  smiled  on  his  daughter  and  tenderly  said, 
As  he  dusted  the  ashes  of  hair  from  his  head: 
"Weep  not  for  our  lost  scientific  appliances! 
The  biggest  of  blazes  can't  burn  up  the  sci- 
ences!" 

But  Tim,  what  of  him?     When  he  heard  the 

wild  shout 
Of  the  people,  he  tried  to,  but  could  not,  get  out ; 
For  their  praise  ran  so  high,  and  still  higher  and 

higher, 
He  wished  in  his  heart  he  was  back  in  the  fire. 
There  was  n't  much  left  of  his  facial  expression — 


74  TIMOTHY  HORN 

You  would  n't  have  guessed  him  to  be  a  Cau- 
casian ; 
His  hair  had  the  friz  of  the  African  fashion. 
Now  it  happened  Miss  Stella  Corona  Van  Dorn 
Had  always  admired  brave  Timothy  Horn ; 
But  now,  on  account  of  her  terrible  fright, 
Or,  more  likely,  because  of  the  pitiful  sight 
Of  a  barbecued  father  and  fricasseed  Tim, 
She  felt  a  resistless  attraction  toward  him, 
And,  her  quicksilver  heart  mounting  high  above 

zero, 
She,  throwing  her  arms  round  the  neck  of  the 

hero, 
Aimed  a  kiss  at  his  lips,  but  it  landed  instead 
On  his  swiftly-averted  de-carbonized  head. 
Then  her  lovers, — Jim,  Joseph,  Sam,  Thomas, 

and  Harry — 
Broke  forth  into  laughter  uncommonly  merry ; 
But,  alas  for  their  laughter!  for  Timothy  Horn 
Threw  an  arm  around  Stella  Corona  Van  Dorn, 
And,  swiftly  advancing,  as  proud  as  a  lion, 
Hurled  his  fist  at  each  smile  that  he  fixed  his 

fierce  eye  on. 
Till  the  faces  of  Harry,  Jim,  Joseph,  and  Sam 


I 


TIMOTHY  HORN  75 

Looked  like  they'd  been  kissed  by  a  battering- 
ram. 

Then  he  doubled  his  fist  for  the  battle  anew. 

"Oh,  Tim!"  cried  Corona.  "Oh!  what  shall  I 
do? 

I'm  afraid  you  will  kill  them,  and  then  they'll 
hang  you  ! 

And  I'll  be  a  wid —  oh!"  "Whose  widow?" 
gasped  Tim. 

"  Why,  yours,  you  dear  stupid!"  she  whispered, 
to  him. 

Then  he  tightened  his  clasp  around  Stella  Van 
Dom, 

And  that  was  the  courtship  of  Timothy  Horn. 


PROFESSOR  VAN  DORN 

(the  vivisectionist) 

When  Professor  Van  Dorn  was  absorbed  in  the 

sciences, 
Or  in  testing  his  strange  scientific  appliances, 
He  thought  not  of  danger.     Now,  his  favorite 

topic 
Was  grafting,  a  theme  with  Van  Dorn  philan- 
thropic : 
Repairing  the  frames  of  disordered  humanity. 
From  noses  distorted  to  brains  with  insanity, 
By  simply  transplanting  from  some  other  sub^ 

ject 
Such  parts  as  were  needed  to  compass  his  ob- 
ject ; 
"For,"  he  reasoned,  "if  men  can  engraft  on  a 

gum-tree 
A  twig  newly  cut  from  the  limb  of  a  plum-tree, 
Why  can't  our  poor  soldiers,  when  wounded  in 
battle, 


FHOFESSOI^    VAN  DORN  77 

Be  repaired  with  deft  clippings  from  horses  and 
cattle?" 

But  his  science  still  paused  in  the  realm  theoreti- 
cal, 

With  cases  all  fancy  and  cures  hypothetical. 

Long  he  sought  for  a  suitable  subject;  the  fact 
is, 

He  himself  was  the  victim  first  offered  for  prac- 
tice. 

Having  lost  his  left  eye  in  a  little  experiment 
That  he  made  for  his  grandson's  instruction  and 

merriment — 
In  truth  't  was  the  quite  unexpected  explosion 
Of  dynamite  under  a  poker's  erosion — 
He   saw   't   was   an    opening   so   long   he   had 

lacked 
For  rend'ring  his  theory  verified  fact — 
Not  one  opening  only,  but  many, — Van  Dorn 
Looked  the  wreck  of  humanity,  shattered  and 

torn: 
His  left  eye  had  left  little  to  mark  its  identity ; 
His  false  teeth  had  been  blown  to  the  realms  of 

nonentity, 


78  PROFESSOR    VAN  DORN 

And  he  seemed  very  old,  for  in  trying  to  utter 
His  words  they  came  forth  with  a  hiss  and  a 
sputter. 

But,  now,  to  avoid  giving  gory  statistics, 
Without  leaving  his  case  in  the  realms  of  the 

mystics, 
I  will  simply  recount  how  he  compassed  his 

mendings 
Of  surgery's  practice  and  dynamite's  rendings. 
Every  doctor  in  town  was  commanded  instanter 
To  rush  to  Van  Dorn  and  become  a  transplanter, 
While  servants  went  skurrying  hither  and  yon 
For  dumb  beasts  to  try  vivisection  upon. 

Then   he   said  to   the   doctors,   with   beaming 

urbanity : 
"We've  a  problem  to  solve  in  the  cause  of 

humanity ; 
This  case  is  superb  in  accessories  clinical. 
Proceed  to  repair  me.     Be  not  timid  nor  finical. 
Give  the  beasts  anaesthetics,  but  /  will  retain 
The  pleasure  of  probing  the  problems  of  pain; 
I  only  regret  that,  for  learning's  requitals, 


PROFESSOR    VAN  DORN  79 

The  dynamite  missed  every  one  of  my  vitals!" 
Then,  with  mirror  in  hand  and  with  finger  as 

index, 
He  gave  his  instructions : 

"Now,  Doctor  Von  Skindex, 
Anoint  what  is  left  of  my  nose  from  yon  bottle. 
And  restore  the  lost  part  with  that  turkey-cock's 

wattle. 
Doctor  Oculus,  yours  is  a  case  of  more  gravity: 
Plant  yonder  pig's  eye  in  my  optical  cavity." 

A  cat,  many  colored,  lent  pelt  to  repair 

Not  only  his  scalp,  but  its  absence  of  hair; 

His  dog,  ever  loyal,  provided  an  ear; 

His  brow  from  an  ape's  took  the  lines  of  the 
seer, — 

Just  a  touch,  to  be  sure,  in  a  little  abrasion, 

But  enough  to  complete  the  Professor's  equa- 
tion. 

There  were  clippings,  and  fittings,  and  stitch- 
ings  galore, 
Anointings,  and  singular  surgical  bandages, 


8o  PROFESSOR    VAN  DORN 

And  terms  from  the  Latin  and  Greek  by  the 
score 
AppHed  to  Van  Dorn's  zoologic  appendages. 

'T  was  done !  and  in  time  each  deft  suture  was 
healed 

On  this  man  who,  so  lately,  was  scattered  and 
peeled. 

But  he  found  in  success  this  most  singular  feat- 
ure, 

That  his  brain  had  absorbed  from  the  nerves  of 
each  creature 

That  helped  reproduce  him  some  characteristic, 

That  he  now  was  a  physico-mental-linguistic- 

Conglomerate-human-porcinus-babboonum- 

Caninus-felintis-E-pluribus-unum ! 

To  the  eye  which  the  pig  had  bequeathed  to 
Van  Dom 

The  most  beautiful  thing  in  creation  was  corn. 

The  fur,  from  the  cat,  on  his  erudite  cranium 

Was  varied  as  leaves  on  a  mottled  geranium; 

It  sparkled  and  snapped  to  his  touch,  and,  more- 
over, 

Rose  up  in  defiance  at  sight  of  old  Rover. 


PROFESSOR    VAN  DORN  8 1 

On  seeing  a  turkey,  his  borrowed  proboscis 
Blazed  forth  and  he   strode  like   a  feathered 

Colossus. 
He  pricked  up  his  ear  when  he  saw  a  raccoon, 
Always  felt  an  incentive  to  bay  at  the  moon, 
Or  to  chatter  and  grin  like  a  playful  babboon. 

To  a  man  of  his  culture  and  lofty  ambitions, 
There  was  something  so  strained  in  the  mental 
relation 

'Twixt  original  self  and  these  beastly  transitions, 
He  resolved  to  abolish  the  organization, 

And  is  making,  I  hear,  an  explosive  appliance 

For  dissolving  his  turco-dumb-bruto-alliance. 

6 


WHAT  MAKES  THE  GRASSES  GROW?" 

I  CLOSED  my  book,  for  Nature's  book 

Was  opening  that  day, 
And,  with  a  weary  brain,  I  took 
A  restful  stroll,  down  toward  the  brook 

That  in  the  meadow  lay, 
And  there,  beside  the  tiny  tide, 

I  found  a  child  at  play. 

Prone  on  the  sward,  its  little  toes 

Wrought  dimples  in  the  sand. 
Its  cheeks  were  fairer  than  the  rose. 
I  heard  it  murmur,  "Mamma  knows. 

But  I  not  unnerstand," 
While  all  unharmed  a  dainty  blade 

Of  grass  was  in  its  hand. 

"What  wouldst  thou  know,  my  little  one?" 

Said  I,  with  bearing  wise; 
For  I,  who  thought  to  weigh  the  sun, 

82 


''WHAT  MAKES    THE    GRASSES   GROW?''     83 

And  trace  the  course  where  planets  run, 

And  grasp  their  mysteries, 
Unto  a  baby's  questionings 

Could  surely  make  replies. 

"What  wouldst  thou  know?"  again  I  said, 

And,  gently  bowing  low, 
I  stroked  its  half -uplifted  head. 
With  chubby  hand  it  grasped  the  blade 

And  answered,  "  Oo  will  know, 
For  '00  has  whixers  on  'cor  face. — 

What  makes  the  grasses  grow?" 

"Last  fall,"  I  said,  "a  grass-seed  fell 

To  the  earth  and  went  to  sleep. 
All  winter  it  slept  in  its  cozy  cell 
Till  spring  came  tapping  upon  its  shell ; 

Then  it  stirred,  and  tried  to  peep, 
With  its  little  green  eye,  right  up  to  the  sky, 

And  then  it  gave  a  leap ; 

*'  For  the  sun  was  warm  and  the  earth  was  fair, 

It  felt  the  breezes  blow. 
It  turned  its  cheek  to  the  soft,  sweet  air. 


84     "'WHAT  MAKES   THE   GRASSES  GROW?'' 

And  a  current  of  life,  so  rich  and  rare, 

Came  up  from  its  roots  below, 
It  grew  and  kept  growing,— -and  that,  my  child, 

Is  the  reason  the  grasses  grow." 

"  'Oo  talks  des  like  as  if  'oo  s'pose 

I 's  a  baby  and  I  don't  know 
'Bout  nuffin' !     But  babies  and  ev'vy  one  knows 
That  grasses  don't  think,  for  they  only  grows, — 

My  mamma  has  told  me  so. 
What  makes  'em  start  an'  get  bigger  an'  bigger? 

What  is  it  that  makes  'em  grow?" 

How  could  I  answer  in  words  so  plain 

That  a  baby  might  understand? 
Ah,  how  could  I  answer  my  heart !     'T  were  vain 
To  talk  of  the  union  of  sun  and  rain 

In  the  rich  and  fruitful  land; 
For  over  them  all  was  the  mystery 

Of  will  and  a  guiding  hand. 

What  could  I  gather  from  learning  more 

Than  was  written  so  long  ago? 
I  heard  the  billows  of  Science  roar 


^WHAT  MAKES   THE   GRASSES  GROW?"     85 

On  the  rocks  of  truth  from  the  mystic  shore, 

And,  humbly  bowing  low, 
I  answered  alike  the  man  and  child: 

"God  makes  the  grasses  grow." 


A  HERO  OF  LEXINGTON 

**  I  HAD  two  bullets  in  my  pouch, 

Two  charges  in  my  horn, 
When  British  red-coats  gayly  came 

To  Lexington  that  morn." 

The  veteran  gravely  spoke  the  words, 

Then  paused,  and  silent  grew; 
But  Johnny  raised  the  lashes  from 

His  wond'ring  eyes  of  blue. 

And  cried,  "Oh,  grandpa,  tell  me  all! 

How  many  did  you  slay  ? 
'T  was  glorious  if  each  bullet  killed 

A  Britisher  that  day!" 

The  veteran  smiled  upon  the  child; 

"You  think  so  now,"  said  he; 
"  But  the  wreath  of  fame  on  Victory's  brow 

An  emblem  of  grief  may  be. 
86 


A   HERO   OF  LEXINGTON  8/ 

"Too  well  you  know  the  story,  dear, 

To  ask  for  its  repeating; 
How,  back  from  Concord,  came  the  foe 

Toward  Boston  swift  retreating. 

"A  proud  young  officer  passed  by, 

And,  standing  near  a  wall, 
I  raised  my  rifle  to  my  eye. 

Resolved  that  he  should  fall. 

"With  steady  nerve  and  earnest  aim 

I  drew  a  bead ;  and  then — 
Well,  then  the  proud  young  officer 

Marched  onward  with  his  men ! 

"One  charge  was  in  my  powder-horn, 

One  in  my  rusty  gun." 
"And  killed  you  not  a  single  man?" 

"  Not  one,  my  boy,  not  one! 

"You're  angry,  dear,  and  so  was  I, 

For  my  patriot  blood  was  hot ; 
But  I  've  thanked  the  Lord  a  thousand  times 

That  He  stayed  the  deadly  shot ; 


88  A   HERO   OF  LEXINGTON 

"For,  when  the  war  was  o'er  at  last, 

The  man  I  'd  tried  to  kill 
Became  my  friend, — I  see  him  now 

Just  coming  'round  the  hill!" 

"Why,  that  is  father!" — "Yes,  my  boy; 

Run  to  the  house  and  bring 
My  rifle,  now,  and  let  me  prove 

That  war 's  a  cruel  thing. 

**You  wished  that  I  had  killed  him  then — 

Suppose  I  kill  him  now!" 
The  child  gazed  on  the  veteran's  face 

And  fiercely  frowning  brow ; 

And  then,  forgetting  Lexington 
And  glory's  glittering  charms. 

Turned  traitor,  and  abruptly  fled 
To  the  red-coat's  fondling  arms. 


THE  TYCOON 

There  was  once  an  unhappy  Tycoon, 

Who  ruled  in  the  isle  of  Japan ; 
And  he  said,  **  I  will  take  my  gigantic  balloon, 
Leave  my  troubles  behind,  and  fly  up  to  the 
moon. 

To  a  happier  realm,  if  I  can. 

"  For  my  kingdom  is  crowded  and  small, 
And  my  people  are  very  ill-featured; 

I  never  can  count  on  my  taxes  at  all; 

We  are  sure  to  have  very  bad  crops  in  the  fall, 
For  the  climate's  extremely  ill-natured." 

So  he  started,  and  upward  he  sailed. 

Till  the  clouds  boiled  like  billows  around  him ; 
The  wind  through  the  rigging  hissed,  whistled, 

and  wailed; 
It  lightened  and  thundered,  snowed,  sleeted,  and 
hailed, 
Till  the  slumber  of  terror  firm  bound  him. 

89 


go  THE    TYCOON 

But,  when  he  awoke,  the  Tycoon 

Found  himself  in  a  region  most  fair. 
He  was  still  in  the  car  of  his  mammoth  balloon, 
And  he  thought  he  had  landed  at  last  on  the 
moon, 
And  a  hundred  Moon-people  were  there. 

They  came  and  most  tenderly  flung 
The  softest  of  silken  wraps  o'er  him. 

He  was  charmed  when  he  found  that  they  spoke 
his  own  tongue; 

They  made  low  obeisances,  shouted,  and  sung, 
And  away  to  a  palace  they  bore  him. 

Then  he  said,  "What  a  beautiful  land! 

And  what  beautiful  people  are  in  it! 
The  air  is  delicious!     The  scenery  grand! 
Ah!  these  are  the  subjects  I  *d  love  to  command; 

They  obey  every  wish  in  a  minute." 

But,  lo!  the  fair  palace,  he  found, 

Was  just  like  his  own  palace  on  earth. 
"This    isn't    the    moon!"    he    cried,    looking 
around. 


THE    TYCOON  9 1 

"Pshaw!     This  is  my  palace!   my  people!   my 
ground! 
Why,  I  never  knew  half  of  their  worth." 

Ever  after  that  day,  the  Tycoon 

Was  a  better  and  happier  man; 
He  nevermore  cared  to  inflate  his  balloon, 
But  he  scornfully  said  to  the  man  in  the  moon, 

"Don't  you  turn  up  your  nose  at  Japan!" 


OLD  JOB  OKCENBEAN 

Old  Job  Okcenbean, 

"No  one  in  particular," 
Very  homely,  very  lean, 

Far  from  perpendicular, 
"Guess  you'd  better  let  him  be," 
So  his  neighbor  said  to  me, 
"  None  of  the  polite  about  him; 
Seems  to  wrap  the  night  about  him; 
Just  a  little  off,  I  reckon. 
By  the  way  he  '11  stand  and  beckon 
To  the  lightning  and  the  thunder 
With  his  old  face  filled  with  wonder." 

But  there  fell  a  light  about  him 

In  whose  beams  I  write  about  him. 

Christmas  Eve  had  come,  and  bright 
Blazed  the  cheery  fire  within; 

But  without  the  shivering  night 
Trembled  to  the  tempest's  din. 

"It  is  time,"  the  mother  said, 

92 


OLD  JOB   OKCENBEAN  93 

"Little  children  were  in  bed. 
Santa  Claus  is  growing  old, 

And  his  hair  like  snow  is  white. 
Hear  the  winds  so  wild  and  cold ! 

Would  you  have  him  come  to-night?" 
Spoke  the  little  dimpled  pet, 
With  her  brows  so  wisely  set, 
"  'Course  he  '11  come!     I  hear  the  humming 
Of  his  bells.     I  know  he's  coming!" 

To  her  baby  brother's  side 
Stole  she,  and,  so  joyous-eyed, 
Whispered,  "  Don't  tell  mamma,  'cause 
I  must  go  meet  Santa  Claus." 
So  she  donned  her  downy  cloak; 
Not  a  sound  her  steps  awoke, 
And,  with  smiling  silence,  passed 
Out  to  where  the  hurrying  blast 
Bore  her  onward,  listening  still 
For  the  sleigh-bells  o'er  the  hill. 

Through  the  town  a  shudder  ran — 
"To  the  rescue,  every  man!" 
And  among  them  strode  the  lean, 
Muffled,  silent  Okcenbean. 


94  OLD  JOB   OKCENBEAN 

Great,  rough  bearded,  freezing  men 

Through  the  night  searched  everywhere, 

And  at  morning  went  again, 
Wearing  faces  of  despair. 

"See!     'T  is  she!     The  child!"     But,  no, 

It  was  high  above  the  snow; 

On  a  branch  that  pierced  the  drift 

They  could  see  it  sway  and  shift. 

Ah!  they  knew  the  kerchief  well, 

And  the  tragedy  it  told ; 
How  an  unloved  hero  fell 

Battling  with  the  blinding  cold ; 
And  they  hurried  to  the  scene, 
Murmuring,  ' '  Poor  old  Okcenbean ! " 

Swift  they  pierced  his  shroud  of  snow, 
Whispering,  "He  is  dead!"     But,  lo! 
'Neath  his  greatcoat,  on  his  breast. 
With  his  thin  arms  'round  her  pressed, 
Lay  the  little  child  asleep. 
Ah,  to  see  the  strong  men  weep 
When  the  darling  raised  her  head. 
And  in  pitying  accents  said: 


OLD  JOB   OKCENBEAN  95 

"Oh!     You  must  not  wake  him;  'cause 
He 's  my  dear  old  Santa  Claus ! ' ' 

Then  they  bore  him  gently  down 
Through  the  snowdrifts  to  the  town, 
Where  they  watched  the  new  life  chase 
Death  from  Job's  poor,  pallid  face. — 
Thus  there  fell  that  light  about  him 
In  whose  beams  I  write  about  him. 


IN  MEMORY  OF  EUGENE  FIELD 

Brave  hearted,  kind,  he  dipped  his  pen 

In  humor's  gentlest  honey-dew, 

And  drafts,  more  prized  than  money,  drew 
In  favor  of  his  fellow-men. 

A  great  physician  of  the  heart, 

He  poised  no  cruel,  murderous  lance 
Among  its  quivering  cords  to  glance. 

But  soothed  them  by  a  kindlier  art. 

He  came,  unheralded,  alone, 
A  comet  from  the  great  unknown, 
A  smile  its  nucleus,  drawing  after 
A  radiant  trail  of  rippling  laughter. 
Men  saw,  but  feared  not  as  of  old, 
When  of  the  wandering  stars  't  was  told 
Presaged  they  war  and  death  and  woe ; 
But,  gazing  on  its  kindlier  glow, 
They  saw  within  its  beams  prismatic, 
96 


or  THE 


IN  MEMORY  OF  EUGENE  FIELD  97 

However  changeful  and  erratic, 
The  light  of  love,  the  mellower  lights 

Of  humor,  that  dispel  the  tears, 

And  banish  melancholy  fears, 
And  bless  and  brighten  weary  nights. 


"HANNER" 

It  was  here  in  Indianner 
That  I  sparked  and  married  Hanner, 
Which  is  probably  the  reason 
I ' ve  a  story  to  relate : 
Well,  the  world  was  all  agin  me, 
And  there  were  't  no  good  luck  in  me, 
And  my  toes  grew  sore  a-kickin' 
At  the  horny  shins  of  fate. 

On  the  farm,  somehow  or  other. 
Storms  kept  chasin'  one  a-nuther, 
Till  they  trampled  down  my  harvest 
And  they  mildewed  out  my  hay. 
Still  I  'd  time  enough  to  gether 
All  my  crops  in  purty  weather 
If  I  had  n't  run  for  office, 
Which  (the  office)  run  away. 

But  my  Hanner,  in  a  manner, 
Held  aloft  the  fam'ly  banner, 
For  she  kept  the  pot  a-bilin' ; 

Day  and  night  she'd  spin  and  weave, 
98 


"  MANNER  "  99 

While  I  kept  "a-lectioneerin'," 
Till  the  neighbors  got  to  sneerin', 
Just  because  she  made  the  livin', 
And  I  thought  we  'd  better  leave. 

Well,  we  kind  o'  took  to  roaming, 
Till  we  landed  in  Wyoming. 

It 's  the  most  confounded  kentry 
That  a  Hoosier  ever  struck! 
Ingen-fighters ,  woman's-righters , 
Long-nosed  Yankee-pome-inditers — 
I'm  Old  Business,  but  what's  business 
Where  no  one  but  fools  have  luck? 

First  I  merchandised  and  busted, 
Till  I  could  n't  uv  got  trusted 
For  a  plug  o'  black  terbacker, 
Let  alone  a  bag  o'  flour; 
But  my  Hanner  went  to  cookin', 
And  first  thing  I  knowed  she  'd  took  in 
Twenty  boarders,  and  the  money — 
Goodness  sakes,  she  made  a  power! 

Well,  my  life  was  growin'  sunny 
With  the  shine  o'  Banner's  money; 


ICX)  "  BANNER  " 

But  the  woman 's-righters  ran  her 
For  a  Jestice  o'  the  Peace, 
And  you  bet  it  riz  my  dander 
For  to  see  her  turnin'  gander, 
Supercedin'  of  her  husband, 
Leavin'  him  among  the  geese. 

But  the  long-nosed  pome-inditers, 
Inj  en-fighters,  woman 's-righters, 
'Lected  her;  but  you  can  bet  your 
Boots  /  did  n't  'lectioneer, 
And  I  told  her,  that's  what  /  did. 
That  I  'd  finally  decided 

That  the  kentry  was  unhealthy. 
And  we  'd  better  come  back  here. 

So  we  came  to  Indianner, 
And  I  must  confess  that  Hanner 
Had  electioneered  so  honest 

That  she  had  n't  spent  a  dollar. 
And  my  life  is  once  more  sunny, 
(Banner's  keerful  o'  my  money,) 
And  she's  now  a  modest  female, 
Not  ashamed  her  spouse  to  f oiler. 


THE  CASTLE  OF  BACCHUS 

I  HAD  slumbered  at  noon; 
But  at  night,  when  the  moon 
Through  my  windows  cast  ribbons  of  silver  that 

fell 
Around  me,  and  bound  me  in  fantasy's  spell. 
Sleep  fled  from  mine  eyes,  and  my  fancy  took 

flame 
With   visions — but,    lo!     through   my   window 

there  came 
A  something,  a  vapor,  a  spirit,  I  ween, 
The  fairest,  yet  strangest  that  ever  was  seen. 

It  stood  by  my  bed, 
And,  murmuring,  said, 
"Come  out  from  yourself.     Leave  your  body 

behind. 
Come,  float  with  me  down  the  far  paths  of  the 

wind." 
An  instant,  and  swifter  than  vision  we  whirled, 
Two  spirits  intangible,  over  the  world. 
Thus  onward,  still  onward,  and  on  till  we  came 

lOI 


I02  THE  CASTLE   OF  BACCHUS 

To  a  land  without  limit,  a  land  without  name; 
To  a  river  that  flows,  whence,  nobody  knows, 
And  no  one  has  ever  yet  told  where  it  goes, 
Except  that  its  waters  unceasingly  run 
Out  into  the  night,  and  away  from  the  sun. 

Then,  alighting,  we  passed  through  the  outer- 
most portals 

Of  a  castle  so  vast  that  it  seemed  the  immortals 

Could  only  have  reared  it  through  cycles  whose 
span 

Horizoned  the  birthday,  primeval,  of  man. 

Far  down  the  long  circular  walls,  endless  throngs 
Passed  inward  through  portals  with  laughter  and 

songs, 
Dividing  in  groups  by  the  law  of  their  kind, 
The  gross  with  the  gross,  the  refined  with  re- 
fined,— 
All  pausing  and  drinking;  for,  swift  as  command 
Gave  voice  to  desire,  the  draught  was  at  hand. 
Under  palm  tree  and  pine 

I  could  see  them  reclining, 
And  sipping  their  wine ; 
And  I  saw  the  designing 


THE   CASTLE   OF  BACCHUS  103 

Deft    waiters    produce    in    each   goblet's   clear 

clink 
A  vocalized,  soft  invitation  to  drink. 
But  I  saw,  as  I  watched  with  the  spirit's  keen 

ken, 
That  each  one  of  that  concourse  of  women  and 

men 
Paused  only  a  little,  then  journeyed  again 
Down  the   avenues   broad  to  the   castle,   and 

passed 
Out  of  sight  through  its  arches  alluring  and  vast. 

We  followed  and  entered.  Through  corridors 
long, 

Rang  notes  of  wild  revelry,  laughter,  and  song; 

But  through  the  loud  tumult  I  caught  the  re- 
frain 

Of  low  lamentations,  of  sorrow  and  pain; 

And  the  tramp  of  the  multitude  smote  from  the 
stones 

A  hollow  and  hideous  discord  of  groans. 

So  vast  were  the  corridors,  turning  and  bending 
In  strange  convolutions,  in  seeming  unending, 


I04  THE    CASTLE   OF  BACCHUS 

That  vision  grew  faint  in  its  effort  to  scan 
Their  limits,  or  fathom  their  intricate  plan. 

Tall  columns  upreared, 
Fantastic,  and  weird, 
Of  an  order  and  texture  that  no  one  could  name, 
For  they  flashed  with  the  semblance  of  crystal- 

ized  flame: 
In  the  castle's  vast  walls  there  was  never  a 

stone ; — 
But  through  them  the  heart  of  humanity  shone, 
And  answered  each  touch  with   a  sob  and  a 

groan! 

Oh !  Why  should  I  linger,  and  tremble  to  tread 
The  chamber  of  horrors  to  which  I  was  led 
By  the  spirit?  For  now,  in  the  innermost  ring 
Of  the  castle,  I  stood  before  Bacchus,  the  King: 
A  bloated,  huge,  loathsome,  and  hideous  thing! 
Round  his  beastly,  limp  lips  lolled  a  sensuous 

smile ; 
And  his  nauseous,  thick  breath  seemed  to  taint 

and  defile 
All  the  air  of  the  castle,  for,  borne  by  his  breath, 


THE   CASTLE   OF  BACCHUS  I05 

On  each  cheek  in  the  throng  fell  the  plague-spots 

of  death. 
But  with  leering,  red  eyes,  dark-encircled,  he 

noted 
The  multitude  endless  and  over  them  gloated, 
As  they  bowed  at  his  altar  and  cast  at  his  feet 
Whate'er  to  their  hearts  was  most  sacred  and 

sweet : 
The  mother,  her  love  for  her  offspring  cast  down; 
The  soldier,  ambition;  the  sovereign,  a  crown; 
The  maiden,  her  purity;  heroes,  their  pride, 
And  even  the  bridegroom  his  love  for  his  bride ; 
The  priest,  who  had  long  and  most  valiantly 

stood 
By  the  banners  of  truth  on  the  watch-towers  of 

God, 
Though  he  heard  the  grand  songs  of  eternity 

roll. 
Came,  and  cast  on  the  altar  of  Bacchus — ^his 

soul! 

Then,  cursing,  they  passed 
Down  a  corridor  vast 
That  ever  grows  steeper;  I  saw  them,  at  last, 


I06  THE   CASTLE   OF  BACCHUS 

Reel  down  to  the  river  whose  black  waters  run 
Out  into  the  night,  and  away  from  the  sun; 
Saw  them  sink  in  its  tide,  and  as  instantly  lose 
Themselves  in  its  sluggish,   black    billows    of 
ooze! 

The  throng  never  ceases.     Forever  they  come, 
With  infinite  revel,  the  infinite  hum 
And  patter  of  feet  o'er  the  echoing  stones, 
Which  forever  respond  with  a  discord  of  groans ; 
While  builders  keep  building,  and,  higher  and 

higher. 
The  minarets  lift  their  weird  fingers  of  fire, 
Wrought   out   from  the  trophies,  most  sacred 

and  sweet, 
Which  the  worshippers  cast  at  the  Bacchanal's 

feet. 

Still  rings  the  loud  song. 
As  they  stagger  along, 
And  sink  in  the  river  whose  black  waters  run 
Out  into  the  night,  and  away  from  the  sun. 


THE  OCTOPUS 

A    MONOLOGUE 

Scene. — A  poet's  apartments. 

The  poet,  surrounded  by  convivial  friends,  speaks. 

[All  drink.] 

Have  you  read  of  the  terrible  octopus, — 

The  devil-fish,  down  in  the  depths  of  the  sea, 
Clinging  with  tentacles  glutinous 

To  the  ragged  rocks,  till  it  seems  to  be 
A  fungus  growth  of  the  strangest  kind, — 
Soft,  and  slimy,  and  scarce  combined; 
With  its  circling  antennae  round  about, 
Which  ever  keep  swaying,  in  and  out, — 
Colorless,  spiritless,  motionless,  save 
As  they  move  at  the  bidding  of  ocean's  wave; — 
Motionless?     Yes,  when  the  sea- waves  sleep. 

And  the  octopus  sees  no  signs  of  prey  ? — 
Let  a  venturesome  diver  come — ^they  creep. 

And  circle  aro\md  him,  and  drag  him  away 

107 


I08  THE   OCTOPUS 

To  death  in  the  den  of  the  monster  grim; — 
A  hideous  beast !     Let  us  turn  from  him ; 

For  why   should   we   shudder    at    things   so 
vile, 
When  the  ocean's  ripples  unceasingly  beat 
A  rhythmical  melody,  soft  and  sweet, 

To  the  flowers  below  that  nod  and  smile  ? 
And  why  should  we  think  of  uncanny  things, 
When  the  magical  clink  of  our  silver  brings 
From  over  the  ocean,  from  vineyards  fair. 
In  quaint  old  flagons,  a  nectar  rare, — 
The  dreamiest  wine  from  the  German  vine  ? — 
Let  tis  talk  of  the  ocean,  and  sip  our  wine. 

Have  you  read  of  the  wonderful  plants  that 

grow 
Under  the  ocean  and  far  below? — 
Marvellous !     Beautiful !     Submarine 
Petals  of  gold,  and  purple,  and  green; 
Stems  of  ivory,  buds  of  pearl, 

Leaves  that  rival  the  rainbow's  hue ; 


THE   OCTOPUS  109 

Spiral  climbers  that  cling  and  curl 

Tenderly  round  the  ocean  rue ; 
Growing,  nor  knowing  a  breath  of  air, 
Growing,  and  glowing,  and  blooming  there, 

Under  the  silent  sea. 
Wouldst  thou  see  the  strange  fair  flowers  that 

grow 
In  the  parks  of  the  ocean,  so  far  below? 

Take  courage;  and  come  with  me. 

[Drinks,  and,  rising  with  some  difficulty, 
paces  the  room.] 

Here  is  the  ocean;  and  here,  our  boat, 
With  its  snow-white  sails  unfurled. 

With  never  a  jar,  like  a  swan  we  float 
Over  shallows  with  shells  impearled. 

And  now,  o'er  the  crystalline  sea  we  glide; 

We  stand  on  deck,  and  look  down  through  the 
tide 

Of  deepening  crystal  whose  depths  assume 

The  gorgeous  colors  of  ocean's  bloom. 
Now,  steady!     The  sails  are  furled. 


no  THE   OCTOPUS 

Cast  anchor,  and  don  the  diver's  mask; 
Now, — down,  and  never  of  danger  ask; 
We  sink  to  the  underworld  1 


Ha,  ha !     I  stand  upon  golden  sand ; 

Rubies  and  sapphires  flash  and  shine; 
Stately  bloomers  around  me  stand ; 

Delicate  creepers  among  them  twine ; 
Strange,  swift  fishes  dart  between 
Branches  of  pearl  and  leaves  of  green, 
Backward,  and  forward,  and,  pausing,  peer 
At  me,  the  wonderful,  walking  here. 

Oh,  life  ideal!  to  loll  so  free 

In  the  sensuous  arms  of  the  pulsing  sea ; 

To  walk  in  gardens  with  sea-rose  crowned; 

To  sit  on  emerald  thrones  embrowned 

By  mosses,  jewelled  and  bronzed  with  sand; 

To  gather  the  roses ;  to  lay  the  hand 

On  feathery  ferns,  divinely  rare 

As  dream- wrought  laces;  to  stroke  the  hair 

That  falls  like  a  silken  glory  down 

From  the  perianth  brown  of  the  ocean-crown! 


THE  OCTOPUS  III 

Here  is  a  plant  whose  flower  distils 
Nectar  the  gods  might  envy  me. 

I  taste, — I  drink, — oh,  how  it  thrills 

My  soul  with  the  spirit  that  fills  the  seal 

Deeper,  and  deeper  still  I  go. 
I  catch  the  glimmer  of  marvellous  things, — 
Grottoes  and  palaces  wrought  for  kings 

In  the  shadowy  depths  below; 
Deeper  and  deeper,  and  softer  still, 
The  twilight  gathers  below,  until 
The  broken  rays  from  the  orb  of  day 
Fall  like  a  mist,  and  die  away 
In  the  softest,  dreamiest  color  hints 
Of  broken  rainbow's  mingled  tints. 

Here  is  a  plant  I  had  not  seen. 
Growing  two  giant  rocks  between; 
Branchless  branches  that  bend  and  curl 
At  the  beck  of  the  sluggish  ocean  swirl; 
Parasite  strange,  with  tendrils  soft, 
Long  and  slender, — they  reach  aloft. 
And  circle  around,  and  seem  to  be 
Dreamily  beckoning : — "  Come  to  me ! " 


112  THE   OCTOPUS 

I  toy  with  its  tendrils,  soft  as  plush, 

So  soft  and  delicate  I  could  crush 

Their  texture  to  jelly  with  finger  and  thumb. 

I  will  trace  them  downward,  perchance  they 

come 
From  a  cluster  of  modest  deep-sea  leaves. 

How  softly  this  frail,  weak  tendril  weaves 

Around  my  body,  and  clings  to  me ! 

I  must  know  what  this  singular  plant  can  be. 

The  tendrils  thicken  as  I  advance, — 

Why,  this  is  the  strangest  of  all  strange  plants! 

For  another  tendril  has  deftly  pressed 

Itself  in  a  circle  around  my  breast ! 

How  long  they  must  be !     I  trace  them  down, 

But  I  cannot  see  the  parent  crown 

From  which  they  grow. — The  shadows  there 

Lie  among  rocks;  I  must  walk  with  care! 

What  magic  of  ocean  has  caused  to  float 
Another  tendril  around  my  throat? 
I  will  remove  it  and  walk  more  free — 
How  it  caresses,  and  clings  to  me! 


THE   OCTOPUS  113 

I  will  break  it  asunder — it  grows  more  tense! 
It  seems  to  move  like  a  thing  of  sense! 
Steadily  downward  they  draw  together — 
Tether  me  not,  for  I'll  break  each  tether! 
Break  them !     I  '11  break  them !   for  others  flash 
Out  from  the  darkness,  and  madly  lash 
The  sea  to  a  foam!     Oh,  God!     I  see 
The  eyes  of  a  demon  that  glares  at  me! 


I  fear  it  not,  for  my  arms  are  strong; 

It  binds  me  with  thongs,  but  I'll  break  each 

thong; 
Break  them !    I  '11  break  them ! — They  crush  me ! 

They  reel 
And  tighten  around  me  like  bands  of  steel ! 
It  is  dragging  me  down — Back!     Man  is  king — 
Oh  monstrous  and  hideous  slimy  thing! 


Was  it  some  horrible  dream  I  dreamed? 

Where  is  the  ocean  whose  depths  I  sought  ? 
Where  are  the  beautiful  flowers  that  gleamed? 

Where  is  the  demon  with  which  I  fought  ? 


114  I^HE   OCTOPUS 

No,  not  dreaming!     This  pitiless  pain 

Here  in  my  heart,  and  here  in  my  head; — 
These  red-hot  lances  that  pierce  my  brain; — 
These  terrible  tongues  of  flame,  blood-red, 
Leap  from  their  cauldrons,  and,  hissing,  tell 
That  I  fought  with  a  demon,  and  died,  and  fell 
Body  and  soul  to  the  depths  of  hell! 

Region  of  horrors,  with  walls  of  night 

Swaying,  and  sinking,  and  lifting  higher. 
As  fades  or  flashes  each  cauldron's  light! 

What  symbol  is  written  in  letters  of  fire 
Which  everywhere  out  from  the  darkness  shine, 
Above  and  around  me  ? — *  *  Wine !   Wine !  Wine ! ' ' 
What  spectres  are  these?     What  spirits  pale 

Walking  like  phantoms  in  endless  line  ? 
They  read  the  letters  of  fire,  and  wail, 

In  voices  of  agony : — '  *  Wine !    Wine !    Wine ! ' ' 
Demons  are  goading  each  ghost  along ! 
My  demons  have  come  I     /  must  join  the  throng ! 
"Wine!    Wine!" 

Ha!  do  the  shadows  fail? 
The  spectres  vanish !     The  spirits  pale 


THE  OCTOPUS  115 

Falter  and  fade  with  the  f aiUng  night ! 

I  live!     'T  is  the  sun!     I  can  see  his  light! 

No  hideous  arms  around  me  twine, 

For  the  demons  and  spectres  were  born  of  wine — 

Oh,  life  in  death!  for  alas!  alas! 

Where  is  my  manhood?     It  lies  a  wreck, 
With  broken  masts  on  its  broken  deck, 

Which  men  do  pity,  and  scorn,  and  pass! 

Wine,  thou  hast  wrought  this  black  disgrace ! 
Thine  was  the  ocean,  and  thou  didst  paint 
The  flowers  with  colors,  so  soft  and  quaint, 

That  led  me  down  to  thy  vile  embrace ! 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  SECOND  GROWTH 

A  POPULAR  man  was  Solomon  Hall, 
Handsome  and  rich,  but  extremely  small; 
So  small,  in  brief,  as  to  cause  remarks 
Which  struck  from  his  pride  resentful  sparks, 
Till  he  stamped  the  earth  with  his  tiny  boot, 
Longed  for  a  cannon  and  something  to  shoot, 
And  cried,  "The  people  who  call  me  small 
Shall  yet  look  up  to  Solomon  Hall ! 
Ha,  ha!     By  chemistry's  magic  art 

I  '11  change  myself  to  a  child  again, 
Then  give  my  body  a  brand-new  start 

And  grow  to  be  tall  like  other  men ! ' ' 

He  coaxed  his  courage  and  choked  his  groans, 
And  steeped  himself  in  delicate  oils 

To  loosen  the  fibres  and  soften  the  bones 
And  make  the  muscles  unfold  their  coils 

He  bottled  the  elements  all  together, 

Winter  and  summer  and  spring-like  weather, 

Stirred  in  the  infinite  drugs  that  go 

ii6 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE   SECOND   GROWTH   11/ 

To  make  all  animate  nature  grow; 
Then,  taking  the  draught,  he  felt  it  sweep 
Through  veins  ecstatic  and  sank  to  sleep. 
This  happened  on  New  Year's  day,  but  when 
He  awoke  the  spring  had  come  again. 

Something,  he  felt  assured,  was  wrong; 

His  body  was  little,  his  legs  were  long. 

And  his  nose  had  developed  a  monstrous  prong; 

His  chest  was  still  the  size  of  a  boy's. 

But  Solomon  Hall, 

Though  terribly  tall. 
Had  lost  his  beautiful  equipoise. 
And,  lo!     A  little  man,  close  beside. 
Who  under  the  pillow  was  trying  to  hide. 
"Well,  sir,"  cried  Sol,  in  haughtiest  tone, 
"  Explain  the  reason  I  'm  not  alone. 
Pray  tell  your  name, 
And  whence  you  came. 
And  why  you  did  n't  announce  your  call. " 

Then  slowly  the  stranger  raised  his  head, 

And,  looking  at  Solomon,  sadly  said: 
"I'm  you!     Don't   you   see?     We're    Solomon 
Hall! 


llS    THE  MAN  WITH  THE   SECOND   GROWTH 

We're  one,  and  Solomon  Hall  is  both! 

I'm  a  part,  dear  twin,  of  your  second  growth!" 

Of  course  in  a  minute  the  truth  came  out, — 
The  man  at  his  shoulder  was  only  a  sprout, 
Such  sprouts  as  grow  on  potatoes,  you  know, 
When  the  fall  rains  tickle  the  old  vines  so 
That  little  knobs  on  the  tubers  grow. 

I  could  n't  describe  the  wondrous  tricks,  or 

What-you-may-call-them,  of  Sol's  elixir. 

But,  oh,  the  predicament  he  was  in! 

The  limber,  ridiculous,  spindling  twin, 

As  he  swung  like  a  pair  of  stilts  through  town 

In  search  of  a  surgeon  to  cut  him  down! 

But  he  found,  alas!  what  is  ever  true, 
That  deeds  of  folly  are  hard  to  undo : 
The  ingenious  elixir  that  made  him  tall 
Had  wrought  the  ruin  of  Solomon  Hall. 


JOHN  BUBBLE'S  WIDOW 

Old  Dubble  was  rich,  and  fat,  and  proud: 

Proud  of  his  corpulent  purse  and  body ; 
Very  proud  of  his  "brown-stone  front," 

The  finest  of  all  on  the  street  called  "  Shoddy  " ; 
Proud  of  the  place  he  long  had  held 

As  number  one  in  the  upper  ten; 
Proud  of  his  pride,  and  even  proud 

Of  the  scorn  he  felt  for  laboring  men; 

Proud  of  all  but  his  origin. 
He  was  proud  of  his  daughters,  especially  proud 

That  his  daughters  were  fully  as  proud  as  he : 
For  old  Dubble  supposed  a  visible  pride 

Was  the  essence  of  aristocacy ; 
Proud  of  his  sons — but  here  a  cloud 

O'ershadowed  the  sky  of  his  vanity, — 
A  cloud  the  size  of  a  woman's  hand, 

But  it  ruined  Old  Dubble's  urbanity. 

John — John  Henry — his  second  son, 

Was  straight  as  an  arrow,  and  strong  of  limb, 

119 


I20  JOHN  BUBBLE'S    WIDOW 

Honest  and  brave;  but  his  brother  Tom 
Was  a  very  different  man  from  him. 

T.  Cormorant  Bubble,  Tom  signed  his  name 
With  a  flourish  the  fiercest  you  ever  saw — 

Was  proud  as  his  father,  and,  worse  than  that, 
Was  a  natural  scamp,  so  he  studied  law. 

Far  be  it  from  me  to  cast  a  slur 

At  the  lawyer  who  stands  as  a  terror  to  evil ! 
I  but  claim  that  the  law,  like  the  Garden  of 
Eden, 

In  spite  of  its  glory,  makes  room  for  the  devil. 
Here's  health,  and  wealth,  and  honor  to  him, 

The  attorney,  who  enters  the  tournament, 
A  legal  knight  with  an  armor  of  right. 

And  a  lance  of  justice  never  bent 
From  its  course  by  the  glittering  shield  of  Mam- 
mon. 

Here's  health,  I  say,  and  a  plethoric  pocket 
To  the  genuine  knight  of  the  right  and  the  weak ! 

When  he's  perfect  by  practice,  and  done  with 
the  docket. 
And  comes  to  the  door  on  Eternity's  shore, 

May  St.  Peter  stand  ready  and  glad  to  tmlock  it ! 


JOHN  BUBBLE'S    WIDOW  121 

Here 's  a  different  kind  of  a  toast — to  him, 

The  legal  gopher,  with  terrible  jaw, 
Who  crawls  through  dark  and  crooked  ways 

To  gnaw  at  the  roots  of  the  tree  of  law. 
T.  Cormorant  Bubble  was  such  an  one, 

A  gopher  indeed,  expert  and  wise 
In  the  knowledge  of  legal  gopher-holes. 

But  the  daylight  of  justice  dazzled  his  eyes. 

It's    a   pleasure   to   turn   from   the   villainous 
Tom 

To  John — John  Henry — John  Henry  Bubble. 
But,  alas!  that  his  love  for  Mary  Brewer, 

Because  of  her  poverty,  brewed  him  trouble. 
Old  Bubble  reclined  in  his  great  arm-chair. 

In  a  manner  he  vainly  intended  for  courtly, 
But  all  you  could  say,    if  you'd  studied  him 
well. 

You  might  say  of  a  toad,  and  that  is,  he  was 
portly. 
While  thus  reclining,  John  Henry  came  in 

And  ventured  the  dreaded  communication. 
That  he  loved  Mary  and  she  loved  him, 

And  begged  for  a  fatherly  approbation. 


122  JOHN  BUBBLE'S    WIDOW 

Old  Bubble  arose  from  his  great  arm-chair, 

With  a  scowl  on  his  brow  and  a  growl  in  his 
throat, 
But  the  volleys  of  words  that  left  his  lips 

Were  such  as  a  Methodist  dares  not  quote. 
It  made  him  angry,  it  hurt  his  pride 

To  think  that  John,  from  his  lofty  station, 
Should  go  to  the  poor  to  find  a  bride ; 

For  in  Old  Bubble's  estimation 
The  law  of  love  was  another  name 

For  the  law  of  financial  gravitation. 
And  he  muttered,  "  If  you  disgrace  our  name 

By  such  plebeian  matrimony," — 
Just  here  he  swore  a  terrible  oath, — 

"I'll  cut  you  off  from  your  patrimony!" 

Who  looks  for  the  lion's  lair  will  find 

It  is  deep  in  the  jungle,  in  quiet  places; 
And  the  lion  in  man  is  found  behind 

The  most  quiet  and  kind  and  placid  faces. 
John  Bubble  was  kind,  but  in  his  heart 

A  quiet  but  brave  young  lion  lay ; 
When  his  father  threatened  to  cut  him  off, 

The  lion  within  growled,  "Cut  away!" 


JOHN  BUBBLE* S    WIDOW  \lL% 

The  parson  united  two  willing  hands, 
Their  hearts  were  united  long  before ; 

"Society"  curled  its  painted  lip 

And  bowed  John  Bubble  away  from  its  door. 

The  West  was  wild,  but  the  West  was  free. 

Sweet  with  the  fragrance  of  freedom's  balm; 
The  poor  man's  Mecca,  the  broad  domain 

Of  God  the  Father  and  Uncle  Sam. 
'T  was  here  John  Bubble  laid  out  his  home, 

On  his  legal  share  of  the  public  lands ; 
But  all  the  capital  he  possessed 

Was  a  capital  wife  and  willing  hands. 

Early  and  late  through  summer  sun, 

Early  and  late  through  wintry  weather, 
He  labored  on  till  his  cheeks  were  tanned. 

And  his  hands  were  calloused  and  brown  as 
leather, — 
Early  and  late,  but  not  alone. 

For  John  and  his  wife  grew  brown  together. 
Many  a  trial  they  learned  to  bear. 

For    the    angel    of    hope    looked    down   and 
told 


124  JOHN  BUBBLE'S    WIDOW 

How  the  sun,  that  bUstered  their  cheeks,  would 
change 
Their  emerald  wheat  to  burnished  gold; 
How  the   frost   that   wrote   on  their   window- 
panes 
In  hieroglyphics  that  he  was  king, 
And  shot  his  javelins  through  their  ears. 

Was  ploughing  their  ground  for  the  coming 
spring. 

Old  Time  rolled  by,  but  he  kept  an  eye 

On  John  and  his  wife,  and  smiled  to  see 
In  every  year  some  added  cheer, 

Some  emblem  of  just  prosperity: 
A  cozy  house  and  a  paling  fence, 

With  a  beautiful  lawn  spread  out  between, 
An  ivied  mound,  a  trellised  rose. 

With  here  and  there  an  evergreen ; 
An  apple-orchard  that  seemed  to  catch 

Its  glorious  fruit  from  the  car  of  the  sun, 
And  as  John  and  his  wife  walked  under  the 
trees. 

Each  limb  reached  down  and  "offered  them 
one." 


JOHN  BUBBLE'S    WIDOW  1 25 

O  home !  not  such  as  the  rich  man  builds 

With  the  ready  gold  from  his  groaning  coffers, 
A  raarble  oblation  to  pride  and  wealth, 

The  wonder  of  fools,  the  jeer  of  scoffers! 
But  home!  reared  patiently,  piece  by  piece, 

With  toil  and  tears,  through  the  weary  years, 
Until  each  separate  part  a  page 

In  the  book  of  two  blended  lives  appears. 

Time  swept  away,  but  their  lives  were  bright 
With  the  jewels  content,  and  love,  and  health. 

Whatever  they  had  they  had  made  themselves, 
With  never  a  thought  of  Old  Bubble's  wealth. 

Ah,  hope  is  fickle  and  life  is  frail! 

A  dread  disease  came  sweeping  by, 
And  Mary  read  in  the  doctor's  face 

The  terrible  message, — John  must  die! 
He  died  as  thousands  have  died  before. 

With  scarcely  a  moment  for  fond  adieu. 
But  his  latest  whisper  to  Mary  was, 

"Thank  God  for  the  home  I  leave  to  you!" 
She  mourned  as  thousands  have  mourned  be- 
fore, 


126  JOHN  BUBBLE'S    WIDOW 

Grief  wrote  its  name  on  her  widowed  brow; 
And  everything  that  John  had  wrought 

Was  more  precious  than  gold  to  Mary  now. 

Oh,  shame!  that  avarice  does  not  lack 

For  law  to  abet  its  crudest  scheme. 
Out  from  the  East  T.  Cormorant  Bubble 

Came  on  the  wonderful  wings  of  steam. 
He  came  as  Old  Bubble's  expert  attorney 

To  aid  in  settling  John's  estate. 
By  his  assistance  the  home  was  sold, 

And  the  widow  was  turned  adrift  to  fate, — 
The  home  she  had  toiled  with  John  to  build, 

Though  suns  were  hot  and  winds  were  raw! 
But  Old  Bubble  got  half,  and  she  got  Jtalf! 

And  that  was  justice,  for  that  was  lau;  I 


GENERAL  JIM 

Now,  General  J.  Montgomery  Jim 
Was  the  greatest  man  in  town, 

And  everybody  looked  up  to  him 
When  General  Jim  looked  down. 

It  was  he  who  wielded  the  party  rod 

And  led  the  voters  on. 
With  all  the  pride  of  a  demi-god. 

Likewise  with  a  demijohn. 

Whenever  he  spoke  men  softly  wheezed 

Hush !     General  Jim  is  speaking ! ' ' 
Full  many  a  sneeze  was  left  unsneezed 
And  cowhide  boots  quit  squeaking. 

"I  am  going  to  Washington,"  said  he, 
As  he  jingled  the  keys  in  his  pocket; 

**The  ball  of  the  party  arm  must  be 
Entirely  out  of  socket!" 
127 


128  GENERAL  JIM 

"Now,  poys,"  said  wond'ring  Yacob  Zim, 
"Yust  listen  vot  I  tole  you, — 

Der  Bresident  gif  our  Yeneral  Yim 
Ein  gab-i-net  portfolio!" 


\Ai  the  White  House] 

"I  am  General  J.  Montgomery  Jim" — 

(The  President  bowed  politely), 
"I  am  Gen — here's  my  card — I'm  the  one — 
I  'm  him! 

I  agree  with  your  policy  quitely!" 

Then  the  crowd  surged  on,  but  he  shouted  back: 

**/  came  to  consult  about  it." 
But  a  son  of  the  sod  exclaimed,  "Alack! 

He  will  have  to  get  on  widout  it!" 

Thus  the  General  left  the  White  House  halls, 

And  it  really  seemed  to  him 
There  were  forty-two  thousand  generals, 

But  none  knew  General  Jim. 


GENERAL  JIM  1 29 

\At  home  again] 

**I  and  the  President,"  said  he, 
*'Had  an  earnest  consultation; 

But  we  differed,  so  I  declined  to  be 
In  his  administration. ' ' 


THE  NATION'S  NATIVITY 

Oh,  marvel  of  the  latter  years! — 
That  out  of  weakness,  toil,  and  tears 
Should  rise  a  state 
So  grand,  so  great, 
Its  voice  was  heard  across  the  sea, 

And  rang  through  many  a  royal  hall 
The  edict:  "Man  shall  yet  be  free 
And  tyranny  shall  fall!" 

Kings  sitting  on  their  thrones  grew  pale, 
To  see  this  giant  of  the  West 

Stand  proud,  in  Freedom's  coat  of  mail. 
And  beckon  the  oppressed. 

Through  every  land  the  sign  was  seen — 
In  Erin's  sorrowing  isle  of  green, 
Among  the  crags  of  Caledon, 
Close  by  the  throne  of  Albion, 
130 


THE  NA  TION  '5  NA  TIVITY  1 3 1 

On  Switzerland's  white  peaks  of  snow, 
Beside  the  Nile,  along  the  Rhine, 
Aye,  from  the  vales  of  Palestine 
To  far-off  murmuring  Mexico, 
Where  hope  had  been  for  ages  furled, 
From  countless  heights 
Sprang  signal  lights. 
Till  Freedom's  flame  flashed  round  the  world. 

Oh,  marvel  of  the  latter  years! — 
Union  of  States  conceived  in  tears, 
Before  a  century  had  placed 

Its  seal  upon  thee,  or  had  lent 
One  mark  of  age,  thine  arms  embraced 

With  giant  clasp  the  continent. 

Oh,  Union!  born  in  toil  and  tears, 

And  grim  with  many  a  battle-scar, 
Live  on,  through  all  the  coming  years. 
Unshaken  by  the  tramp  of  war! 
May  notes  of  danger  ne'er  appall. 
Thy  starry  emblem  never  fall, 
Nor  sound  for  thee  thy  funeral  knell 
Till  Time  shall  ring  his  evening  bell! 


WASHINGTON.  AT  VALLEY  FORGE 

Sublime  in  deeds,  in  faith  sublime, 

I  see  thee,  Washington,  look  down, 
Sphinx-like,  along  the  course  of  time 

In  calm,  colossal  faith;  renown 
Upon  thy  sad,  yet  glorious  brow 
Rests  peacefully;  as  even  now, 
With  feet  that  dwell  in  mystery, 
And  lips  that  breathe  no  history. 
The  Sphinx  in  patient  grandeur  stands, 
Though  Egypt's  drifting,  burning  sands 
Surge  round  her  bosom,  listening  long 
For  the  new-birth  and  christening  song 
Of  the  yoimg  Egypt  yet  to  be, — 
So,  Washington,  though  calumny. 
Like  sands  by  hot  siroccos  hurled. 
Drove  madly  round  thee, — though  the  world 
Knew  not  the  grandeur  of  the  soul 
Enthroned  behind  thy  calm  control, 
'T  was  thine  in  patient  faith  to  wait 
Till  truth  should  vanquish  seeming  fate, 

133 


WASHINGTON  AT   VALLEY  FORGE      1 33 

And  bring  thy  people  victory ; 
'T  was  thine,  O  Washington!  to  stand, 

A  unity  of  cloud  and  flame, 
Between  thy  weak,  heroic  band 

And  swift  destruction;  thine  the  name 
Which  is,  and  shall  forever  be 
The  Atlas  of  our  liberty. 


THE  SWORD  AND  BUGLE  OF  '76 

I  CHANT  no  praise  of  war. 
I  would  not  see  a  sword  unsheathed, 
Nor  hear  one  note  of  battle  breathed 
Within  this  dear,  grand,  glorious  land, 
For  all  the  honors  of  command 

With  its  triple  golden  star. 
Yet  down  the  future  sweeps  a  time 
When  peace  means  cruelty  and  crime. 


The  sword  within  its  scabbard  sleeps. 
Forbid  the  moment  when  it  leaps 
Like  lightning  forth;  but,  since  it  must, 
Ye  freemen,  keep  it  free  from  rust. 


The  bugle  hangs  against  the  wall. 
Soft  winds  steal  through  it,  and  I  hear, 
With  fancy's  sharp,  attentive  ear 

Held  close,  a  clear,  yet  whispered,  call. 

134 


THE  SWORD  AND  BUGLE  OF  76       1 35 

Hark!     It  is  dreaming  of  the  past, 
And  talking  in  its  sleep  of  war; 
And  I  can  feel  it  thrill  and  jar 

As  with  a  battle-blast. 

'T  is  hushed, — save  one  beseeching  note: 
"Have  ye  forgotten  Concord,  men? 
The  bitter  days  may  come  again ; 

Then  guard  from  dust  my  brazen  throat!" 


THE  PRICE  OF  LIBERTY 

What  has  our  freedom  cost  ? 
Take  fancy's  wings  to  Valley  Forge, 
And  hear  the  weird,  wild,  ceaseless  dirge 
Of  winter  winds  among  the  trees. 
In  fancy  starve ;  in  fancy  freeze ; 
In  fancy  die,  or,  living,  see 
Gaunt  comrades  stretch  their  hands  to  thee. 
Go  writhe  beneath  the  cruel  heel 
Of  hunger  and  disease,  and  feel 

That  Liberty  is  lost. 

Brave  men  will  stand  where  bullets  fly, 

And  die  as  only  heroes  die; 

But  they  who  dare  to  starve  and  wait. 
As  did  our  sires,  in  ice  and  snow, 
For  truth,  a  hundred  years  ago, 

Are  thrice  heroic,  doubly  great. 

This  much  has  freedom  cost,  and  more, 
Far  more  than  this,— blood  on  the  shore. 
Blood  on  the  sea,  blood  everywhere, 
136 


THE  PRICE   OF  LIBERTY  1 37 

Beside  the  James  and  Delaware; 
On  Bunker  Hill's  heroic  steeps; 
Blood  where  the  Tallahatchie  sweeps 
Through  semitropic  glades  of  palm; 
Blood  on  the  Heights  of  Abraham; 
At  Concord,  Georgetown,  Lexington; 
Blood  in  the  swamps  where  Marion 
Led  on  his  ragged  riflemen, 
Fought,  fled,  and,  turning,  fought  again. 

Ah!  who  can  tell  the  tears  that  fell 

In  weary  homes  for  those  departed? 
Each  zephyr  seemed  a  funeral  knell; 

Each  hamlet  had  its  broken-hearted. 
And  yet  they  plucked  the  stars  from  heaven, 

And  Freedom's  glittering  flag  unfurled, — 
The  noblest  gift  to  mortals  given 

Since  His  who  died  to  save  the  world. 

Ye  free-born  sons  of  Freedom,  read 
Your  peerless,  priceless  title-deed 

To  freedom  in  the  books  of  God. 
Undimmed  by  age  the  letters  shine 
As  when  the  angel  wrote  each  line 

With  sabre  dipped  in  patriot  blood. 


ZAGONYI'S  CHARGE  AT  SPRINGFIELD 

Night  in  Missouri.     The  dreary  rain 
Lazily  pattered  upon  the  pane. 

* 

The  watch-dog  saw  from  the  cottage  door 
A  marvellous  vision  pass  before: 
Out  from  the  Ozark's  canyons  wild, 

Out  from  the  shadow  of  cliff  and  cloud 

That  muffled  the  world  with  a  dripping  shroud, 
A  weird  battalion  of  horsemen  filed ; 
Out  from  the  darkness  into  sight, 
Seen  but  a  moment,  and  then  the  night 

Drew  its  curtain  behind  the  rear, 
And  the  watch-dog,  looking  and  listening  still, 
Awoke  the  echoes  along  the  hill 

With  a  dismal  howl  of  wonder  and  fear. 
But  on  they  rode  the  long  night  through ; 

Few  words  were  said;  no  bugles  rang; 
The  only  sound  the  darkness  knew 

Was  ring  of  hoof,  or  sabre's  clang. 

138 


ZAGONYI'S  CHARGE  AT  SPRINGFIELD    1 39 

An  hour  for  needed  rest,  and  then 
The  bugle  blows;  they  mount  again, 
And  forward  press  until  they  come 

Well-nigh  to  Springfield.     All  is  still- 
But,  hark! — The  long-roll  of  the  drum 

Rings  sharp  before  them  on  the  hill. 
Ah !  Zagonyi,!  from  yonder's  crown, 
Two  thousand  waiting  foes  look  down. 

Then  on  the  level  plain  below 
The  leader  halted  his  command, 
And,  for  a  moment,  glass  in  hand, 

Surveyed  his  giant  foe. 
Quick  turning  to  his  men  again: 

"Comrades,"  he  said,  "the  hour  is  here. 
Before  us  stand  two  thousand  men ; 

We  are  three  hundred;  they  who  fear 
To  follow  where  I  lead  to-day, 
And,  fearing,  choose  to  falter,  may; 

Fall  out  of  ranks  who  will." 
The  only  answer  was  the  clank 

Of  sabres  in  their  sheaths  of  steel, 

^  Pronounced  like  agony  with  z  prefixed. 


I40    ZAGONYI'S  CHARGE  AT  SPRINGFIELD 

Responding  for  each  silent  rank: 
"We're  with  you,  woe  or  weal." 

Down  from  the  Southron's  battlement 
Shrill  bugles  their  defiance  sent. 

As  gentle  were  the  trooper's  eyes 
As  woman's  under  peaceful  skies. 
But  now  they  flashed  to  sudden  flame, 
And  quick  and  sharp  his  answer  came: 

"  Hurl  back  the  rebel  taunt! 
Do  as  I  do,  and  follow  me; 
And  let  your  watchword  ever  be, — 

The  Union,  and  Fremont! 
Draw  sabres !     Let  them  carve  to-day 

Your  names  on  Glory's  arch; 
We  '11  carry  the  rebels  back  their  bay ;         ' 

By  the  right  flank,  quick  trot,  march!** 

Right  onward  o'er  the  treacherous  plain, 

Through  brooks  where  mire  is  close  and  deep ; 

Right  on,  against  the  leaden  rain. 

Without  a  pause  the  guardsmen  sweep, 


or  THE     ^ 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 

ZAGONYI'S  CHARGE  AT  SPRINGFIELD    141 

Though  many  a  whizzing  Minie  ball 
Strikes  home  to  human  target  riven, 

And  more  than  twoscore  guardsmen  fall 
Before  one  answering  blow  is  given. 

But,  on!     'T  is  Zagonyi  who  leads! 
And  forward  spring  the  fiery  steeds 
Until  is  passed  the  deadly  plain. 
At  bugle's  blast  they  draw  the  rein, 

And  form  along  the  verge. 
Above  them  many  a  Minie  sings, 
While  Zagonyi's  wild  clarion  rings; 

'*  In  open  order — Charge ! " 

THE    CHARGE 

As  smiteth  the  tempest,  they  smite  the  hill; 

All  thought  is  a  unit,  that  unit  the  foe; 
All  feeling,  a  thrill  of  invincible  will; 

All  time,  one  omniscient,  omnipotent  Now. 

Strike,    rowels!     Fly,    chargers!     Ride    madly, 
and  ride 
Each  man  for  himself,  and  each  steed  for  his 
master! 


142    ZAGONYI'S  CHARGE  AT  SPRINGFIELD 

Time  holds  the  dread  balance,  and  Time  shall 
decide : 
One  moment  for  Triumph,  and  two  for  Dis- 
aster ! 

How  reels  the  green  hill  from  the  chargers' 
swift  stroke! 
Hold  aloft  thy  dread  balance,  O,  Time!  From 
the  crown, 
A  thousand  poised  rifles  puff  banners  of  smoke, 
And    a    hailstorm    of    shrieking    destruction 
sweeps  down. 

One  moment,  and  chargers  dash  mad  o'er  the 

field, 
No  guards  in  their  saddles  swift  sabres  to  wield, 
Neighing   wildly,    and   calling,   but    calling   in 

vain. 
For  their  masters  who  never  shall  mount  them 

again. 

But  Zagonyi's  words  like  a  bugle-blast  ring: 
"Come  on !     I  am  with  you ! "     And  madly  they 
spring 


ZAGONVrS  CHARGE  AT  SPRINGFIELD    1 43 

Right  on  to  their  foes,  never  drawing  a  rein, 
And  their  swords,  flashing  silver  one  moment 

o'erhead, 
Whirl  downward,  and  rise  in  swift  circles  of 

red; 
But  on,  through  the  living  lines,  over  the  slain, 
Charge  madly,  and,  wheeling,  charge  backwards 

again. 
Wherever  is  danger,  or  work  to  be  done, 
Steed,  rider,  and  sabre,  appearing  as  one. 
Like  a  bolt  of  destruction  incarnate,  rush  on. 

Unshaken  and  grim  in  the  hell  of  the  fray. 
One  footman  stands  proud  in  the  garb  of  the 

Gray, 
With  rifle  poised  ready,  with  eye  on  the  bead, 
Keeping  ever  in  line  with  the  rider  and  steed 
Who  are  coming  with  blood  upon  stirrup  and 

rein, — 
On  the  foam  of  the  nostril — on  forelock  and 

mane ; — 
Space  whirls  from  between  them;   eye  answers 

to  eye; 
'T  is  the  focus  of  time — 't  is  the  cast  of  a  die — 


144    ZAGONYPS  CHARGE  AT  SPRINGFIELD 

At  the  flash  of  a  rifle,  the  clash  of  a  sword, 
Both  rider  and  footman  fall  dead  on  the  sward. 

But  on  ride  the  living,  ne'er  heeding  the  breath 
Of  hissing,  swift  Minie  balls  singing  of  death. 
Are  they  demon,  or  human. 
These  men  born  of  woman, 
Who  charge,  and  keep  charging,  ne'er  counting 

their  foes 
Except  by  their  sabres'  swift,  terrible  blows? 
And  who  can  withstand  them? — for  who  can 

withstand 
Fate,  riding  the  whirlwind  with  death  in  his 

hand? 

"Three  cheers  for  the  Union."  The  steeds'  fly- 
ing feet 

Keep  time  to  the  watchword  and  give  it  repeat. 

"Sound  the  trumpet,  draw  rein!"  for  the  con- 
flict is  done. 

And  triumph,  and  glory,  and  Springfield  are 
won! 


LEADVILLE  JIM 

He  came  to  town  one  wintry  day ; 

He  had  walked  from  Leadville  all  the  way. 

He  went  to  work  in  a  lumber-yard, 

And  wrote  a  letter  that  ran,  "  Dear  Pard, 

Stick  to  the  claim,  whatever  you  do, 

And  remember  that  Jim  will  see  you  through." 

For,   to    quote    his    partner,    "they   owned    a 

lead 
Mit  der  shplendidest  brosbects,  und  nodings  to 

ead." 

When  Sunday  came  he  brushed  his  coat 
And  tied  a  handkerchief  round  his  throat. 
Though  his  feet  in  hob-nailed  shoes  were  shod 
He  ventured  to  enter  the  house  of  God, 
Where,  sharply  scanning  his  ill-clad  feet, 
The  usher  gave  him  the  rearmost  seat. 
By  chance  the  loveliest  girl  in  town 

lO 

145 


146  LEADVILLE  JIM 

Came  late  to  the  house  of  God  that  day, 
And,  scorning  to  make  a  vain  display 
Of  her  brand-new  beautiful  Sunday  gown, 
Beside  the  threadbare  man  sat  down. 
When  the  organ  pealed  she  turned  to  Jim 
And  kindly  offered  her  book  to  him, 
Held  half  herself  and  showed  him  the  place. 
And  then,  with  genuine  Christian  grace, 
She  sang  soprano  and  he  sang  bass. 
While  up  in  the  choir  the  basso  growled, 
The  tenor,  soprano,  and  alto  howled, 
And  the  banker's  son  looked  back  and  scowled. 

The  preacher  closed  his  sermon  grand 
With  an  invitation  to  "join  the  band"; 
Then  quietly  from  his  seat  uprose 
The  miner,  dressed  in  his  threadbare  clothes, 
And  over  the  carpeted  floor  walked  down 
The  aisle  of  the  richest  church  in  town, 
In  spite  of  the  general  shudder  and  frown. 
He  joined  the  church  and  went  his  way ; 
But  he  did  not  know  he  had  walked  that  day 
O'er  the  sensitive  corns  of  pride,  rough-shod, 
For  the  miner  was  thinking  just  then  of  God. 


LEADVILLE  JIM  1 47 

A  little  lonely  it  seemed  to  him 

In  the  rearmost  pew  when  Sunday  came; 
One    deacon    had    "dubbed"    him    "Leadville 
Jim," 

But  the  rest  had  forgotten  quite  his  name. 
And  yet  't  was  never  more  strange  than  true : 
God  sat  with  the  man  in  the  rearmost  pew, 
Strengthened  his  arm  in  the  lumber-yard, 
And  away  in  the  mountains  helped  his  "  Pard." 

But  after  a  time  a  letter  came 

Which  ran:   " Dear  Yim: — I  haf  sell  our  claim, 

Und  I  send  you  a  jeck  for  half  der  same. 

A  million  I  dought  vas  a  pooty  goot  brice, 

Und  my  heart  said  to  sell,  so  I  took  its  advice — 

You  know  vat  I  mean  if  you  lofe  a  frauline — 

Goot-py.     I  am  going  to  marry  Katrine." 

The  hob-nailed  shoes  and  rusty  coat 
Were  laid  aside,  and  another  note 
Came  rippling  out  of  the  public  throat. 
The  miner  was  now  no  longer  "Jim/' 
But  the  Deacons  ** brothered "  and  "mistered " 
him; 


1 48  LEAD  VILLE  JIM 

Took  their  buggies  and  showed  him  round, 
And,  more  than  the  fact  of  his  wealth,  they 

found, 
Through  the  papers  which  told  the  wondrous 

tale, 
That  the  man  had  led  his  class  at  Yale. 

Ah!  the  maidens  admired  his  splendid  shape 
Which  the  tailor  had  matched  with  careful  tape ; 
But  he  married  the  loveliest  girl  in  town, — 
The  one  who  once  by  his  side  sat  down. 
When  up  in  the  choir  the  basso  growled, 
The  tenor,  soprano,  and  alto  howled, 
And  the  banker's  son  looked  back  and  scowled. 


"NIGGER  JOE" 

Should  fancy  bid  me  mingle  tenses  separate  by 

years, 
You  must  know  the  time  I  tell  of  was  full 

forty  years  ago, 
When  Afric's  sons  were  bondmen,  long  before 

their  briny  tears 
Had  rusted  out  the  cruel  chain  that  bound 

them  in  their  woe. 
My  hero's  name  was  Joseph,  but  they  called 

him  "Nigger  Joe/' 

Not  formed  for  common  fancies  was  the  mind  of 
Nigger  Joe; 
He  loved  to  muse  upon  the  moon,  and  meteor's 
mystic  flight. 
But  his  pet  theme  was  the  pole-star,  till  at  last 
for  whip  and  hoe — 
Joseph's  never-failing  diet — he  had  lost  all 

appetite. 
However  fair  the  day  might  be,  he  always 
longed  for  night. 
149 


I50  '' NIGGER  JOE'' 

One  evening  when  "de  people,"  as  he  called 
them,  were  in  bed. 
When  the  starry  Swan  had  swept  half-way 
along  her  shining  track, 
Joe  slipped  out  to  study  "stronomy,"  and,  look- 
ing up,  he  said, 
"If  de  white  hab  got  de  Stars  and  Stripes, 

*t  aint  much  de  nigger  lack, 
But  while  his  stars  are  in  de  sky  his  stripes 
are  on  his  back!" 

Then  his  heart  grew  bitter  with  the  gall  of  servi- 
tude and  wrong; 

But  his  fancy  caught  the  heavy  roll  of  a 
mighty  Northern  drum, 
And   the   starry   choirs   of   heaven   raised   the 
chorus  of  Freedom's  song. 

While  the  pole-star  sang  the  solo;  but  poor 
Nigger  Joe  stood  dumb, 

Till  northern   lights   raised   signal-flags   and 
waved  for  him  to  come. 

Then  did  n't  he  go !     Poor  Nigger  Joe !     When 
the  music  made  a  run, 


'' NIGGER  JOE''  151 

Instead  of  dragging  his  time  he  seemed  in- 

cHned  to  get  ahead, 
Though  his  part  was  heavy,  for,  by  some  chance, 

he  carried  his  master's  gun 
And  a  bundle  of  clothes,  which  often  broke 

the  measure  of  his  tread. 
While  two  huge  pockets — by  accident ! — were 

filled  with  a  little  bread. 

And  thus  while  Joe  is  keeping  time  to  the  music 

of  the  spheres, 
With  feet  full  long  enough  to  fill  the  measure 

so  sublime, 
Deep,   wild,    and   weird,    along   his    track   the 

bloodhound's  howl  he  hears. 
And  at  the  sound  with  one  swift  bound  he 

breaks  from  the  heavenly  chime, 
With  a  terrible  crescendo,  into  very  broken 

time. 

Ah,  many  like  thee,  poor  Nigger  Joe,  have  heard 
the  siren  song 
Which  the  pole-star  sang  to  the  sons  of  grief, 
and  have  listened,  alas,  to  find 


152  '' NIGGER  JOE" 

That  the  path  is  thorny,  and  long,  and  dread, 
that  leads  from  the  gates  of  wrong ! 

But  hark  to  the  hounds!  Fly,  Nigger  Joe! 
nor  pause  to  look  behind: 

Death  is  following  fast  as  the  black-winged 
plague  that  rides  upon  the  wind. 


On,  blindly  on,  with  whirling  brain.  Fear  sitting 

in  Reason's  seat 
And  guiding  his  flight,  now  here,  now  there, 

for  the  trembling  midnight  rings 
With  the  hollow  voices  of  demon  hounds,  the 

clatter  of  horses*  feet, 
And  curses  and  yells  and  signal-calls,  while 

the  breath  of  the  river  brings 
The  sound  of  the  skiff's  swift  eagle  swoop,  and 

the  flap  of  its  water-wings. 


On,  blindly  on,  with  reeling  limbs  and  wild  eyes 
scared  and  dim! 
Poor  Nigger  Joe !     His  steps  have  led  to  a  foe 
before  unknown, 


'' NIGGER  JOE''  153 

For  the  hills  rise  up  impassable,  precipitous,  and 
grim. 

The  race  is  up,  and  bleak  despair  finds  utter- 
ance in  a  groan — 

When,  lo!  a  cavern  with  midnight  throat  and 
ragged  jaws  of  stone! 


With  the  sudden  thrill  of  desperate  hope  he 

enters  the  black  abyss. 
And  gropes  his  way  through  its  utter  night, 

and  cringes  along  the  floor. 
Now  shrinking  back  from  a  slimy  touch  and  a 

serpent's  angry  hiss, 
Now  pressing  on  from  death  behind  with  the 

dread  of  death  before, 
While  a  sweat   as  clammy  as  death's  cold 

sweat  is  oozing  from  every  pore. 


He  hears  the  voices  of  waters  wild,  but  the 
echoes  tell  not  where. 
For  they   speak  with   a  legion   of   mocking 
throats,  above,  below,  around, 


154  '' NIGGER  JOE'' 

They  rumble  like  far-ofE  cataracts;    they  sob 

through  the  midnight  air 
Like  a  night-bird's  sad  and  sombre  wings ;  they 

mutter  and  scream;  they  sound 
Like  the  laughter  of   demons   or  groans   of 

ghouls  in  their  caverns  underground. 


Is  it  a  breath  from  the  outer  world,  a  waif  from 

the  dew-damp  air, 
That  glides  behind  with  a  silken  sound  and 

rustles  along  his  path? 
Or  is  it  a  step?     With  a  shudder  he  turns  and 

trembles  before  the  glare 
Of    living    fires, — two    glittering    eyes.     He 

stands  with  bated  breath. 
But  his  heart  beats  loud  with  a  frightened 

beat,  for  it  knocks  at  the  gates  of  death. 


The  creature  is  beating  his  death-roll  on  the 
rocks  with  warning  lash. 
It  is  binding  his  will  with  the  terrible  spell 
of  its  eyes'  mesmeric  glow; 


'' NIGGER  JOE'*  155 

Under  his  heels  a  stone  breaks  off  and  falls  with 

a  frightful  crash 
Down  through  the  gloom  into  deeper  gloom, 

and  sinks  in  a  gulf  below, 
And  the  waters  lick  their  hungry  lips  and  call 

for  Nigger  Joe. 


There  is  death  before  him,  with  glittering  eyes, 

and  claws  strong,  cruel,  and  keen; 
There  is  death  behind,  and  far  below,  down, 

down  through  horrid  gloom. 
With  walls  of  granite,  and  under  a  shroud  of 

black  waves  rushing  between; 
There  is  death  advancing,  with  deep,  hoarse 

howls,  to  the  mouth  of  his  living  tomb, 
Till  his  gamut  of  dread  is  all  complete  with  its 

different  notes  of  doom. 


The  stones  along  the  gulf's  black  brink  are  fall- 
ing one  by  one, 
He  feels  them  tremble  beneath  his  feet,  but 
the  gleams  of  those  wild  eyes 


1 56  "  NIGGER  JOE  " 

Transfix  him  there,  and  with  never  a  thought 
that  he  carries  his  master's  gun, 
He  only  thinks  of  the  panther  crouched  to 

spring  upon  its  prize, 
With  nerves  as  tense  as  bow-strings  ere  the 
deadly  arrow  flies. 

An  instant  more, — a  wild  shrill  shriek  rings  out 
and  rends  the  night 
Like  a  last  long  wail  of  agony.     Then  follow 
the  clash  of  teeth. 
The   crash   of  jaws,  the   clatter   of   claws,  the 
notes  of  fury  and  fright, 
And  growls   and  howls  and  horrid  yells — a 
scream — a  gasp  for  breath — 
A  last  weak  struggle — a  last  faint  cry — a 
shiver — a  gurgle — death ! 

And  men  come  cautiously  through  the  gloom, 
each  holding  aloft  a  light 
Of  the  pine's  red,  resinous,  seething  torch,  and 
peering  to  and  fro 

Into  the  darkness,  where  night  stands  guard  be- 
hind columns  to  left  and  right, 


^' NIGGER  JOE''  157 

They  find  the  panther's  mangled  corpse,  and 

around  it,  crouching  low, 
The  hounds  are  licking  their  bleeding  sides — 

but  where  is  Nigger  Joe? 

Where  is  he?  Ask  that  seething  tide  that 
rushes  beneath  the  ground, 

And  bears  him  on  through  the  earth's  black 
veins  in  a  chaos  of  clamorous  clashing, — 
The  hissing  of  waters  through  shivered  rocks, 
the  howling  where  wild  waves  bound 

Through  deep-voiced  caverns  with  echoing 
domes ;  the  roar  of  the  cataract  crashing 

Down  granite- jawed  gorges,  and  plunging  be- 
low in  a  maelstrom's  mad  foaming  and 
dashing. 

In  utter  darkness,  in  utter  dread,  poor  Joe  is 

swept  away 
By  a  current  as  cold  as  the  rivers  that  rush 

from  a  glacier's  melting  snow. 
And  yet  he  struggles,  not  for  life,  but  struggles 

for  time  to  pray, 


158  '' NIGGER  JOE'' 

For  the  fingers  of  death  have  clutched  his 
throat  to  drag  him  down  below, 

And  the  rocks  reach  out  long,  cruel  arms  and 
strike  at  Nigger  Joe. 


Pray,    Nigger  Joe!     Thy  time   is   short.     The 

cataract  howls  below. 
Quick,    clutching    a    sharp    projecting    rock, 

while  the  wild  waves  bend  him  double, 
He  prays  as  he  never  has  prayed  before:    **0 

Lord,  forgive  poor  Joe ! 
He's  gwine  to  drown!     Please  take  him  up 

where  de  whip  and  de  hounds  and  de 

trouble " 

But  the  rest  of  the  prayer  of  Nigger  Joe  goes 

upward  in  a  bubble. 

There's   a  wonderful   stream  that   rushes   out 

from  under  a  frowning  hill, 
As  large  as  a  river,  and  forms  at  first  a  pool 

with  willow  bands. 
And  on  that  night  as  the  moon  looked  down 

o'er  the  waters  so  clear  and  chill, 


'' NIGGER  JOE''  159 

She  saw  a  dark  form  floating  forth,  with 
something  Hke  head  and  hands, 

In  the  current  it  drifted  around  and  round, 
then  rested  upon  the  sands. 


At  last,  as  she  watched,  it  seemed  to  move,  and 

then,  with  opened  eyes, 
It  looked  around  with  bewildered  stare,  as  one 

who  would  behold 
On  the  frowning  hills  the  pearly  gates  of  the 

Heavenly  Paradise. 
.    And  it  murmured,  "  Dis  surely  am  Jordan's 

stream,  but  de  water's  berry  cold! 
And  where  am  de  angels  dey  talks  about,  and 

where  am  de  gates  ob  gold? 


**I  wonder  if  dis  am  all  a  dream?     Who  am  I, 

anyway  ? 
I  thought  I  was  an  angel  fust,  but  now  I  ain't 

so  sho'. 
Whar  am  de  wings?     If  dis  am  Heaben.   dis 

child  no  want  to  stay!" 


l6o  "  NIGGER  JOE  " 

And  then  he  gazed  around  to  find  some  land- 
mark he  might  know, 

When,  looking  down,  he  saw  his  feet, — "  Why, 
dis  am  Nigger  Joe!" 


While  thus  he  lay  upon  the  sand  he  heard  the 
pole-star  singing 

The  song  of  liberty  in  time  with  the  drum's 
far-distant  blow, 
And  from  a  hundred  thousand  stars  came  free- 
dom's chorus  ringing. 

And  northern   lights   flashed   up   again  and 
beckoned  Nigger  Joe. 

Then,  springing  up,  **Yah!     Yah!"  laughed 
he,  **I  guess  dis  nigger  go!" 


If,  as  you  walk  about  the  town  some  quiet  star- 
lit night, 
You  meet  an  aged  colored  man  with  hair  as 
white  as  snow, 

Whose  wrinkled  face  and  filmy  eyes  grow  radiant 
with  light 


*'  NIGGER  JOE  "  l6l 

When  looking  on  the  pole-star,  you  may  not 

surely  know, 
And  yet  it's  more  than  possible  it  may  be 

Nigger  Joe. 


TO  THE  GRADUATES 

Life  beckons  you.     Ah!  who  can  know 

By  what  divergent  paths  you  go  ? — 

By  Louisiana's  dark  lagoons ; 

In  regions  of  the  great  Tycoons ; 

In  mission  fields  at  Heaven's  behest, 

Or  in  the  schoolhouse  of  the  West ; 

Down  paths  of  peace,  warm  hand  in  hand 

Through  wedlock's  fragrant  summer-land; 

Through  joys  and  sorrows  manifold ; 

To  penury,  or  wealth  of  gold; 

To  humble  labor,  or  to  fame 

Wrought  by  your  genius — 't  is  the  same 

Strange  riddle;  aye,  the  mystery 

Of  life's  unwritten  history. 

It  matters  little  when  or  where, 
Far  down  the  years  or  far  away. 

Your  college  bell  you'll  ofttimes  hear 
Sonorous  as  it  sounds  to-day; 

X62 


TO    THE   GRADUATES  1 63 

For  memory  swings  her  golden  line 
Athwart  the  years,  across  the  seas, 

And  sends  you  by  an  art  divine 

Your  heart's  long-silent  symphonies. 

And  thou,  loved  Alma  Mater,  bring 

Still  to  young  minds  thy  quickening. 

Thy  light  shall  shine;   young  hearts  shall  thrill, 

Young  brains  grow  luminous,  and  the  will, 

Trained  at  thine  altar-fires,  shall  bend 

Each  impulse  to  its  noblest  end. 

So  shall  the  children  thou  hast  taught 

Cast  off  the  swaddling-clothes  of  thought, 

And  see  the  mind's  horizon  rings 

Enlarged  by  reason's  questionings. 

Is  this  thy  limit?     No,  forsooth; 
The  feet  of  scientific  truth 
Scarce  touch  the  brink  of  seas  that  roll 
Around  the  uplands  of  the  soul. 

So  teach  thy  children  how  to  play 
In  grander  tone,  exultant,  strong, 


164  TO    THE   GRADUATES 

Reveilles  to  a  nobler  day, 

A  dead-march  at  the  grave  of  wrong; 
And  lend  to  each  that  deathless  light 

By  which  the  world's  heart-heroes  trod: 
Faith's  faultless  flame  forever  bright, 

Plucked  from  the  altar-fires  of  God. 


IN  DAYS  OF  OLD 


165 


DREAMS  OF  THE  OLDEN  TIMES 

Come,  let  us  dream  of  the  olden  times, 

Of  the  Longer-than-long  Ago, 
Ere  the  poles  of  the  earth  had  changed  their 

base, 
Or  the  Tropic  of  Cancer  had  scorched  the  face 

Of  temperate  Mexico, 
When  the  great  equator  ran  north  and  south, 

As  the  stratifications  show. 

The  world  had  seen  but  a  million  years. 

And  a  hundred  cataclysms; 
It  was  filled  with  a  terrible  chaos  of  things. 
The  germs  of  dogs,  and  lizards,  and  kings, 

And  it  suffered  with  countless  spasms" 
In  its  vain  attempts  to  assort  and  sift 

Its  various  protoplasms. 

Those  were  the  days  of  monstrous  things, 
Measureless  boa-constrictors  with  wings, 

167 


1 68       DREAMS  OF   THE   OLDEN   TIMES 

Snakes  whose  breath  was  a  hot  simoom, 

And  whose  cough  was  as  loud  as  the  crack  of 

doom. 
There  were  beasts  with  granite  rocks  for  scales, 
With  only  one  leg,  and  forty  tails; 
They  could  n't  walk,  but  they  could  jump, 
You  could  hear  for  a  thousand  miles  the  thump 
When  one  came  down,  and  it  cracked  the  crust 
Of  cooling  chaos,  sending  the  dust 
Of  rocks  azoic  above  the  trees. 
Till  it  made  the  dignified  dodo  sneeze. 
Each  one  had  horns  on  its  hideous  snout. 
And  it  turned  the  mountains  wrong-side  out, 
Tearing  open  the  dens  of  the  mastodon, 
And  eating  the  inmates  one  by  one. 

Even  a  comet  came  down  to  see  i 

That  villainous,  vast  menagerie. 
And  stood  like  a  polliwog  on  its  head, 
Gazing  in  wonder  with  eye  blood-red. 
While  its  tail  excitedly  lashed  the  stars 
Till  it  knocked  three  teeth  from  the  jaw  of  Mars, 
Which  fell  to  the  earth; — if  you  wish  to  see  'em, 
You  will  find  all  three  in  the  British  Museum 


DREAMS  OF   THE   OLDEN   TIMES       1 69 

Labelled:  "Teeth  of  the  mastodon, 
Found  where  the  river  Amazon 
Enters  the  river  Des  Moines,  below 
The  Indian  Trading  Post,  St  Joe." 

So,  let  us  dream  of  the  ancient  times, 

And  of  days  less  far  remote ; 
We  will  hear  the  horrible  blomrog  roar, 
And  the  polyglotwoggle  speak  before 

Man  ground  the  first  language-note 
Into  ragged  words,  and  shot  them  forth 

From  his  guttural,  ape-like  throat. 


THE  BLOMROG 

Ten  cycles  have  rolled  away, 

Each  cycle  a  million  years, 
Since  a  mastodon  stood  on  Baffin's  Bay 
Moaning  and  groaning  all  the  day, 

While  his  lids  were  heavy  with  tears. 

He  wanted  a  bath,  but  dared 

Not  go  to  the  marshy  shore, 
For  the  plesiosaurus  at  him  glared, 
And  the  ichthyosaurus  at  him  stared, 

And  he  heard  the  sea-toad  roar. 

Alas!  he  was  very  small, — 

For  that  marvellous  age,  at  least, — 
Only  twenty-nine  and  a  half  feet  tall, 
And  forty  the  other  way,  that  was  all: ' 
Just  a  bite  in  a  blomrog's  feast! 

Out  from  the  depths  profound 

Of  the  forests  two  miles  high 
Came  the  hideous  blomrog's  trumpeting  sound, 
And  the  tread  of  the  monster  shook  the  ground 

Like  an  earthquake  passing  by. 
170 


THE  BLOMROG  fjl 

As  a  huge  boar  rends  the  clover 

Entangled  across  his  track, 
This  cavernous-jawed  carnivorous  rover 
Rushed  through  the  trees  whose  limbs,  locked 
over, 

Were  rent  by  his  rock-ribbed  back. 

Then  the  plesiosaurus  glared. 

And  the  terrified  sea-toad  holloed. 

But  little  the  pitiless  blomrog  cared! 

The  mastodon  begged  that  his  life  be  spared; 
But  his  prayer  and  his  body  were  swallowed. 

Still,  bravely  to  life  he  clung. 

And,  inhaling  a  mighty  breath. 
He  hung  by  his  trunk  to  the  blomrog's  tongue, 
And  there  in  the  hideous  throat  he  swung, 

Till  the  monster  choked  to  death. 

And  the  shock  of  the  blomrog's  fall 

Cracked  the  bottom  of  Baffin's  Bay; 
But  the  splendid  pluck  of  the  mastodon  small — 
Only  twenty-nine  and  a  half  feet  tall — 
Is  a  lesson  for  you  to-day. 


THE  POLYGLOTWOGGLE 

It  has  long  been  my  pleasure  to  scan 

The  progressions  of  life  on  the  earth ; 
And  now  I  will  tell,  if  I  possibly  can, 
In  the  plainest  of  English,  the  story  how  man 
From  the  polyglot woggle  had  birth. 

For  I  am  a  scientist  true, 

With  learning's  most  classical  lingo. 
When  I  found  an  old  tooth,  which  to  science  was 

new, 
I  restored  the  whole  beast,  hoof  and  horn  and 
tail,  too. 
And  I  called  it  the  hip-pop-o-jingo ; 

Which  means — but  no  matter.     It 's  Greek. 

Thus  I  won  the  Academy  roses ; 
And  the  Royal  Society  asked  me  to  seek 
A  few  fossil  remains  that  would  help  me  to 
speak 
On  the  Genesis  theme  against  Moses. 
172 


THE  POLYGLOT WOGGLE  1 73 

So,  seeking,  I  found  a  huge  fossil. 

In  the  Bad  Lands  of  Western  Dakota, 
With  a  tail  like  a  comet,  a  head  most  colossal, 
And  forty-two  tongues  sticking  fast  in  its  jaw 
still; 
So  I  called  it  in  Greek,  polyglota, 

Which  means  many-tongued ;  and,  moreover, 
Since  its  eye  had  the  form  of  a  goggle, 

While  its  **pollixfog"  tail  proved  the  beast  a  sea- 
rover. 

In  order  both  characteristics  to  cover, 
I  called  it  the  polyglot woggle. 

When  the  sea  rolled  its  fathomless  billows 

Across  the  broad  plains  of  Nebraska, 
When  around  the  North  Pole  grew  bananas  and 

willows. 
And   mastodons  fought  with  the  great  arma- 
dillos 
For  pineapples  grown  in  Alaska; 

When  the  glyptodon  came  to  the  ocean, 

The  plesiosaurus  to  ogle. 
But  could  find  not  a  word  to  express  its  emotion, 


174  THE  POLYGLOTWOGGLE 

Then   there   came    a*  fantastic,    most    singular 
notion 
To  the  brain  of  the  polyglotwoggle : 

"Every  tongue  I  will  study,"  it  said, 

"From  the  ape's  to  the  great  alligator's; 

For  have  I  not  forty-two  tongues  in  my  head? 

They  laugh  at  me  now,   but  they'll  call  me, 
instead, 
The  most  learned  of  all  beastly  translators." 

All  its  heart  in  the  effort  it  threw 

Till  its  learning  became  the  world's  wonder; 
But,  alas!    when  it  tried  to  converse  with  the 

gnu. 
And  puckered  its  lips  to  pronounce  the  French  w. 

Its  tail  split  completely  asunder ! 

Then  on  the  two  pieces  it  rose. 

And  it  cried:  "I'll  succeed  if  I  can!" 
While  the  tips  of  its  tail  were  turned  up  for  its 

toes, 
And  it  walked!     The  first  biped!    so  synthesis 
shows. 
And  the  polyglotwoggle  was  man! 


CUSHLOG 

(A  mound-builder's  protest  against  the  exhumation 
of  his  bones.) 

Ou-ugh!     Ou-ugh!     What  horrible  sound 
Has  awakened  my  bones  from  their  sleep  under 
ground  ? 
'T  is  the  mastodon's  tread — 
Wough!     I  shiver  with  dread, 
'T  is  the  man-eating  tushbrog  with  wings  on 
its  head! 
Through  my  mound  it  will  thrust 
Its  claws,  and  my  dust 
It  will  htirl  to  the  west,  to  the  north,  and  the 

south, 
And  my  skull  it  will  grind  in  its  iron-bound 
mouth, 
In  its  fury  because  all  the  people  are  dead. 

Azatlan,^  take  pity  on  Cushlog,  the  Toltec, 
Whose  body's  dried  up  till  it's  only  a  small 
speck ; 

I  The  sun,  the  Toltec  deity. 
175 


1/6  CUSHLOG 

Drive  the  tushbrog  away, 
Or  it  certainly  may 

With  its  grinders  grind  Cushlog  to  powder 
to-day. 
Drive  off  the  great  tushbrog, 
Azatlan,  I  'm  Cushlog 
Who    offered    himself,    when    Baltlaken,    the 

heathen. 
Wouldn't  die  as  a  sacrifice,  saying,  "Take  me^ 
then," 
And  I  died  for  thee,  mighty  Azatlan — now 
pray, 

Do  drive  off  the  tush — what  in  Megtla  is  that  ? 
'T is  an  ape  peering  down!     No,  it  wears  a  plug 
hat! 
It  is  ugly  and  white;  ' 

It  has  let  in  the  light 

Through  my  mound  where  there  always  was 
plenty  of  night. 
It  must  be  a  man, 
But  I  can't  see  his  plan 

In    digging    around    here.     Say!     Stop    that! 
Hollo,  there! 


CUSHLOG  177 

Look  out  what  your 're  doing!     I'm  down  here, 
— go  slow  there ! 
Save  yourself,  if  you  can,  by  precipitate  flight ! 

What  is  it  you  want?     Are  you  levying  taxes? 
If  so,  take  my  vases,  my  arrows,  my  axes, 

And  leave  me !     He 's  mum ! 

He  is  deaf  and  I  *m  dumb. 

Or  I  'd  show  my  proficient  profanity  some. 
He  is  tasting  my  dust, 
And  he  says,  "It  is  rust." 

Now  he  crushes  my  skull  in  the  palm  of  his  hand. 
And  says,   "It  is  decomposed   something-and- 
sand," 

As  he  twirls  it  around  between   finger  and 
thumb. 

If  you're  looking  for    curios, — scores  may  be 

found. 
With  dead  loads  of  people  in  some  other  mound. 

Can't  you  leave  me  alone  ? 

I  am  only  a  stone, 

Or,  at  most,  but  a  trace  of  disorganized  bone, — 
He  is  crowding  the  socket 
Of  my  arm  in  his  pocket! — 


178  CUSHLOG 

Hollo,  up  there!     People  are  buried  down  here! 
Don't  mine  us,  I  say!     Are  you  minus  an  ear? 
If  you  want  to  break  any  one's  bones,  break 
your  own! 

Azatlan,  I  see  thee  ride  red  through  the  sky, 
As  thou  didst  on  the  day  when  I  ventured  to  die 

On  the  altar  for  thee ; 

But  naught  do  I  see 

Of  temple  or  city.     Alas !     Can  it  be 
That  the  numberless  host. 
Thick  as  sands  on  the  coast, 
Of  Toltecs  have  vanished  like  snow  from  the 

ground, 
And  their  voices  been  hushed  in  the  silence  pro- 
found 

Of  the  ages  that  buried  the  tushbrog  and  me ! 


GUATIMOZIN 

Should  you  ever  conclude  to  look 

Through  the  annals  of  Guatimozin, 
Be  very  sure  that  no  treacherous  hook 
Lies  hid  in  the  leaves  of  the  Aztec  book 

You  would  poke  your  inquisitive  nose  in — 

Supposin ' 

You  could  find  one  to  poke  your  learned  nose 
in. 

Near  Hidalgo,  when  footsore  and  weary 

(Ah!  my  guide  was  a  knowing  young  fellow!), 
I  found,  up  a  canyon  romantic  and  dreary, 
In  an  ancient  pueblo,  perched  high  like  an  aerie, 

An  Aztec  poetic  and  mellow, 

And  yellow, 

With  a  voice  like  a  violoncello. 

At  first  he  attempted  to  fly ; 

But  my  guide,  with  a  gesttire  terrific, 
Seized  his  arm,  and,  with  flashing  stiletto  on 
high— 

179 


l8o  GUATIMOZIN 

But  I  saw  with  expert  antiquarian  eye 
What  made  me  grow  sweetly  pacific, 
Beatific — 
Three  earthenware  slabs  hieroglyphic ! 

Then  a  struggle  for  calmness  arose  in 

My  heart,  as  I  stooped  to  explore  them; 
But  I  foujid  that  true  loyalty's  ember  still  glows 

in 
The  Aztec's  lone  breast,  for  he  cried,   "Guati- 
mozin!" 
And  swift  from  my  fingers  he  tore  them, 
And  bore  them. 
And  weeping  he  threw  himself  o'er  them. 

How  my  heart  beat  with  raptured  pulsation, 

For  I  saw  in  these  tablets  antique 
A  key  to  the  tongue  of  the  civilization 
Which  perished  before  the  Castilian  invasion ; 

A  key  I  had  gone  far  to  seek. 

'T  was  a  streak 

Of  bright  sunshine  to  light  the  antique. 

Then  I  tenderly  raised  him  and  said: 
"Oh!  son  of  the  great  Guatimozin, 


GUATIMOZIN  l8l 

If  you  '11  sell  me  these  trijies  I  '11  give  you  instead 
These  beads  for  your  neck,  and  this  cloth  for 
your  head, 

And  this  flannel  to  wrap  your  poor  toes  in ; 

Throw  those  in ; 

And  this  'kerchief  to  comfort  your  nose  in!" 

Ah!  mournful  and  sad  was  his  smile,  • 

As  he  cried,  "This  the  great  Aztec  book-um ! " 
Then  I  added  my  silver  and  gold  to  the  pile ; 
My  watch,  my  revolver,  and  meerschaum;  but 
while 

I  was  feeling  for  more  he  sighed,  "Took-um! 

Oh!  look-um! 

Me  so  poor,  or  me  never  sell  book-um!" 

Just  then  I  was  prouder  than  Schliemann 

At  the  ruins  of  ancient  Mycenae; 
But  when,  at  Hidalgo,  I  showed  to  Pat  Lehman 
My  treasures  linguistic,  he  laughed  like  a  de- 
mon. 

And  yelled;  "They  are  not  worth  a  penny! 

Not  any! 

Not  a  penny,  no  matter  how  many! 


lS2  GUATIMOZIN 

**  An'  faix,  I  don't  care  if  I  tells, 

For  I  knows  both  the  laddies  that  makes  'em. 
It 's  a  Greaser,  that  stays  at  the  ruins  'n'  sells 
While  Mickey  'n'  Pat  mixes  morthar  'n'  shells 

An'  daubs  on  the  pictures,  'n'  takes  'em 

An'  bakes  'em, 

An'  they  sells  jist  as  well  if  they  breaks  *em!" 

So  I  've  told  you  the  why  and  the  wherefore, 

How  I  purchased  some  Aztec  antiquities, 
Of  course,   without  hinting  't  was  that  I  was 

there  for. 
And  now  I  will  add :  Very  little  I  care  for 

That  land  of  vast  moral  obliquities. 

Iniquities, 

And  for  me,  they  can  keep  their  antiquities. 


THE  GROTTO  FLOWER  OF  ELL-BANOOR 

(".  .  ,  So,  seeking  an  entrance  through  the 
coral  reefs  but  finding  none,  we  sailed  slowly  around 
the  circular,  green  island  to  the  point  from  which  we 
had  started.  Finally  the  two  natives,  whom  we  had 
brought  from  a  neighboring  island,  succeeded,  by 
swimming  and  wading,  in  reaching  the  shore,  where, 
finding  the  people  friendly,  and  speaking  their  own 
tongue,  they  induced  some  of  them  to  come  out  for  us 
in  their  frail  craft  and  take  us  ashore,  which  they  did 
by  winding  in  and  out  through  many  devious  ways. 
.  .  .  What  was  our  surprise  to  find  that  what  had 
seemed  a  great,  circular  island  embowered  in  semi- 
tropical  green,  was,  in  very  truth,  an  ancient  coral 
reef,  in  the  form  of  a  vast  ring,  rising  from  the  depths 
of  the  ocean,  and  enclosing  a  placid  little  sea  dotted 
with  scores  of  enchanting  and  luxurious  islets. 
The  natives  told  us  of  a  great,  hooded  flower,  of  weird 
and  wondrous  beauty,  which  grew  in  the  depths  of  one 
of  their  isles  called  Ell-Banoor,  meaning  forbidden- 
isle,  or  isle  of  death.  This  flower  was  of  so  great  size 
that  men  might  enter  its  mysterious  depths:  but  woe 
to  the  one  so  daring !  for  the  vast  curving  petals  would 
close  around  him,  and,  overwhelming  him  with  their 
sleep-laden  perfume,  hold  him  there  till  life  went  out 
183 


1 84      GROTTO  FLOWER   OF  ELL-BANOOR 

in  enchanting  dreams,  arid  his  body  was  consumed  by 
absorption  as  food  for  that  great  carnivorous  plant. 
Only  one  of  all  the  daring  men  who  had  sought  to  solve 
the  mystery  of  that  isle  of  death  had  ever  returned. 
That  one  (the  father  of  a  beautiful  maiden  who,  with 
her  lover,  had  tmwittingly  landed  on  the  isle)  only 
lived  to  tell  the  story,  and  then,  crazed  by  what  he  had 
seen,  and  by  the  overwhelming  odors  exhaled  from  the 
flower,  sprang  into  the  sea  and  perished." — From  the 
log-book  of  Captain  Arkright,  a.d.  1581.) 

Strange  and  beautiful  the  story. 
Of  a  ring  of  emerald  glory 
Bending,  like  a  green  horizon, 
'Round  an  Eden,  ocean-born; 
Many  a  league  the  ring  enclosing 
Held  a  hundred  islands,  dozing, 
North  of  all  Antarctic  rigors, 
South  of  burning  Capricorn. 

Forth  from  yonder's  dainty  harbor, 
Where  the  vines  have  wrought  an  arbor 
Climbing  high,  and  intertwining 
Through  the  arching  boughs  above, 
Swept  a  bark,  white  sailed,  and  laden 
With  a  dark-eyed  youth  and  maiden, — 


GROTTO  FLOWER   OF  ELI^BANOOR      1 85 

Faces  of  strange  southern  beauty, 
All  their  glances  soft  with  love. 

And  the  breeze,  that  gently  bore  them. 
Swung  love's  glowing  censer  o'er  them, 
Till  the  swaying  halo  bound  them 
In  its  ambient  folds  secure, 
Noting  not  the  soft  wind's  shifting,  . 
Till  their  boat,  unguided,  drifting, 
Swept  the  swaying  tendrils,  pendent 
From  the  banks  of  Ell-Banoor. 

Ell-Banoor,  or  Isle  Forbidden; 
Death  dwelt  there,  by  beauty  hidden, 
For  whoever  dared  to  enter 

Ne'er  escaped  its  sylvan  bowers. 
E'en  the  birds,  that  shot  like  painted 
Arrows  through  its  fragrance,  fainted 
With  the  rapture  of  inhaling 
Odors  of  lethean  flowers. 

Onward,  through  the  deep'ning  splendor. 
Walked  they  under  palms  and  slender 
Waving  boughs  whose  bells,  translucent, 
Tresses  trailed  of  golden  beams ; 


1 86      GROTTO  FLOWER   OF  ELL-BANOOR 

Down  a  path  that  still  grew  steeper, 
Where  the  shimmering  shades  fell  deeper, 
To  a  drowsy  brook  that  murmured 
Mellow  music  in  its  dreams. 

On  the  farther  bank  reclining, 
Like  a  shell  with  golden  lining. 
Grew  the  hollow,  purple-hooded 
Grotto  flower  of  Ell-Banoor. 
From  its  vast  and  vaulted  chamber 
Issued,  through  its  lips  of  amber. 
Mellow  beams,  like  those  reflected 
From  a  prostrate,  jewelled  ewer. 

But  one  petal,  lowly  bending, 
In  a  rainbow-curve  extending, 
Reached  across  the  lazy  water 

Like  a  drawbridge  o'er  a  moat.        ' 
Silent  were  its  silken  hinges, 
But  its  pendent,  purple  fringes. 
Swaying  softly,  smote  together 
With  a  dreamy,  silver  note. 

"Roo  Larmena!     Preen  sel  moor  ma," 
Softly  spoke  the  youth,  "del  oorma" — 


GROTTO  FLOWER   OF  ELL-BANOOR      1 87 

"  Dear  Larmena!     *T  is  the  portal 
To  the  region  of  the  blest." 
O'er  the  arch,  as  in  a  vision, 
Passed  they  to  its  depths  elysian; 

But  there  blushed  a  crimson  footprint 
Where  each  shining  sandal  pressed. 

There,  upon  a  velvet  anther, 
Sesile,  spotted  as  a  panther. 

Sat  they,  and  in  liquid  language 

Crooned  the  story,  ever  new, 

While  a  cloud  of  incense  bound  them, 

And  the  golden  globe  around  them. 

Swaying  with  slow  convolutions, 

Flushed  and  flamed  a  deeper  hue ! 

Was  it  Nature's  necromancy. 
Or  Larmena 's  timid  fancy 

That  the  airy,  petal  drawbridge 
Slowly,  silently  arose? 
Ah !  it  closed  the  amber  crescent ; 
And  they  sat  in  opalescent 
Splendor  where  lethean  odors 
Lulled  to  rapturous  repose. 


1 88      GROTTO  FLOWER  OF  ELL-BANOOR 

Round  him  fell  her  shining  tresses, 
Trembling  to  his  last  caresses ; 

And  his  voice  went  out  in  murmurs: 

"Roo  Larmena!     Preen  sel  moor 

Thus  they  passed  Death's  radiant  portals 
To  the  realm  of  the  Immortals, — 
While  their  boat  swung  idly  waiting 
By  the  banks  of  Ell-Banoor. 

THE    END 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

RENEWALS  ONLY— TEL.  NO.  642-3405 

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